THE END OF THE WAR

The Whole History of Grandfather's Chair

by Nathaniel Hawthorne

THE END OF THE WAR, THE WHOLE HISTORY OF GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR by Nathaniel Hawthorne



IN the twilight of the succeeding eve, when the red beams of the fire
were dancing upon the wall, the children besought Grandfather to tell
them what had next happened to the old chair.

"Our chair," said Grandfather, "stood all this time in the Province
House. But Governor Shirley had seldom an opportunity to repose within
its arms. He was leading his troops through the forest, or sailing in a
flat-boat on Lake Ontario, or sleeping in his tent, while the awful
cataract of Niagara sent its roar through his dreams. At one period, in
the early part of the war, Shirley had the chief command of all the
king's forces in America."

"Did his young wife go with him to the war?" asked Clara.

"I rather imagine," replied Grandfather, "that she remained in Boston.
This lady, I suppose, had our chair all to herself, and used to sit in
it during those brief intervals when a young Frenchwoman can be quiet
enough to sit in a chair. The people of Massachusetts were never fond of
Governor Shirley's young French wife. They had a suspicion that she
betrayed the military plans of the English to the generals of the French
armies."

"And was it true?" inquired Clara.

"Probably not," said Grandfather. "But the mere suspicion did Shirley a
great deal of harm. Partly, perhaps, for this reason, but much more on
account of his inefficiency as a general, he was deprived of his command
in 1756, and recalled to England. He never afterwards made any figure in
public life."

As Grandfather's chair had no locomotive properties, and did not even
run on castors, it cannot be supposed to have marched in person to the
old French War. But Grandfather delayed its momentous history while he
touched briefly upon some of the bloody battles, sieges, and onslaughts,
the tidings of which kept continually coming to the ears of the old
inhabitants of Boston. The woods of the North were populous with
fighting men. All the Indian tribes uplifted their tomahawks, and took
part either with the French or English. The rattle of musketry and roar
of cannon disturbed the ancient quiet of the forest, and actually drove
the bears and other wild beasts to the more cultivated portion of the
country in the vicinity of the seaports. The children felt as if they
were transported back to those forgotten times, and that the couriers
from the army, with the news of a battle lost or won, might even now be
heard galloping through the streets. Grandfather told them about the
battle of Lake George in 1755, when the gallant Colonel Williams, a
Massachusetts officer, was slain, with many of his countrymen. But
General Johnson and General Lyman, with their army, drove back the enemy
and mortally wounded the French leader, who was called the Baron
Dieskau. A gold watch, pilfered from the poor baron, is still in
existence, and still marks each moment of time without complaining of
weariness, although its hands have been in motion ever since the hour of
battle.

In the first years of the war there were many disasters on the English
side. Among these was the loss of Fort Oswego in 1756, and of Fort
William Henry in the following year. But the greatest misfortune that
befell the English during the whole war was the repulse of General
Abercrombie, with his army, from the ramparts of Ticonderoga in 1758. He
attempted to storm the walls; but a terrible conflict ensued, in which
more than two thousand Englishmen and New-Englanders were killed or
wounded. The slain soldiers now lie buried around that ancient fortress.
When the plough passes over the soil, it turns up here and there a
mouldering bone.

Up to this period, none of the English generals had shown any military
talent. Shirley, the Earl of Loudon, and General Abercrombie had each
held the chief command at different times; but not one of them had won a
single important triumph for the British arms. This ill success was not
owing to the want of means: for, in 1758, General Abercrombie had fifty
thousand soldiers under his command. But the French general, the famous
Marquis de Montcalm, possessed a great genius for war, and had something
within him that taught him how battles were to be won.

At length, in 1759, Sir Jeffrey Amherst was appointed commander-in-chief
of all the British forces in America. He was a man of ability and a
skilful soldier. A plan was now formed for accomplishing that object
which had so long been the darling wish of the New-Englanders, and which
their fathers had so many times attempted. This was the conquest of
Canada.

Three separate armies were to enter Canada from different quarters. One
of the three, commanded by General Prideaux, was to embark on Lake
Ontario and proceed to Montreal. The second, at the head of which was
Sir Jeffrey Amherst himself, was destined to reach the river St.
Lawrence by the way of Lake Champlain, and then go down the river to
meet the third army. This last, led by General Wolfe, was to enter the
St. Lawrence from the sea and ascend the river to Quebec. It is to Wolfe
and his army that England owes one of the most splendid triumphs ever
written in her history.

Grandfather described the siege of Quebec, and told how Wolfe led his
soldiers up a rugged and lofty precipice, that rose from the shore of
the river to the plain on which the city stood. This bold adventure was
achieved in the darkness of night. At daybreak tidings were carried to
the Marquis de Montcalm that the English army was waiting to give him
battle on the Plains of Abraham. This brave French general ordered his
drums to strike up, and immediately marched to encounter Wolfe.

He marched to his own death. The battle was the most fierce and terrible
that had ever been fought in America. General Wolfe was at the head of
his soldiers, and, while encouraging them onward, received a mortal
wound. He reclined against a stone in the agonies of death; but it
seemed as if his spirit could not pass away while the fight yet raged so
doubtfully. Suddenly a shout came pealing across the battle-field. "They
flee! they flee!" and, for a moment, Wolfe lifted his languid head. "Who
flee?" he inquired.

"The French," replied an officer. "Then I die satisfied!" said Wolfe,
and expired in the arms of victory.

"If ever a warrior's death were glorious, Wolfe's was so," said
Grandfather; and his eye kindled, though he was a man of peaceful
thoughts and gentle spirit. "His life-blood streamed to baptize the soil
which he had added to the dominion of Britain. His dying breath was
mingled with his army's shout of victory."

"Oh, it was a good death to die!" cried Charley, with glistening eyes.
"Was it not a good death, Laurence?"

Laurence made no reply; for his heart burned within him, as the picture
of Wolfe, dying on the blood-stained field of victory, arose to his
imagination; and yet he had a deep inward consciousness that, after all,
there was a truer glory than could thus be won.

"There were other battles in Canada after Wolfe's victory," resumed
Grandfather; "but we may consider the old French War as having
terminated with this great event. The treaty of peace, however, was not
signed until 1763. The terms of the treaty were very disadvantageous to
the French; for all Canada, and all Acadia, and the Island of Cape
Breton,--in short, all the territories that France and England had been
fighting about for nearly a hundred years,--were surrendered to the
English."

"So now, at last," said Laurence, "New England had gained her wish.
Canada was taken."

"And now there was nobody to fight with but the Indians," said Charley.

Grandfather mentioned two other important events. The first was the
great fire of Boston in 1760, when the glare from nearly three hundred
buildings, all in flames at once, shone through the windows of the
Province House, and threw a fierce lustre upon the gilded foliage and
lion's head of our old chair. The second event was the proclamation, in
the same year, of George III. as King of Great Britain. The blast of the
trumpet sounded from the balcony of the Town House, and awoke the echoes
far and wide, as if to challenge all mankind to dispute King George's
title.

Seven times, as the successive monarchs of Britain ascended the throne,
the trumpet peal of proclamation had been heard by those who sat in our
venerable chair. But when the next king put on his father's crown, no
trumpet peal proclaimed it to New England. Long before that day America
had shaken off the royal government.