Not four thousand men, but four times four thousand, now stood in its defence; and their chiefs wisely resolved not to throw away the advantages of their position.  Nothing more was heard of Vaudreuil’s bold plan of attacking the invaders at their landing; and Montcalm had declared that he would play the part, not of Hannibal, but of Fabius.  His plan was to avoid a general battle, run no risks, and protract the defence till the resources of the enemy were exhausted, or till approaching winter forced them to withdraw.  Success was almost certain but for one contingency.  Amherst, with a force larger than that of Wolfe, was moving against Ticonderoga.  If he should capture it, and advance into the colony, Montcalm would be forced to weaken his army by sending strong detachments to oppose him.  Here was Wolfe’s best hope.  This failing, his only chance was in audacity.  The game was desperate; but, intrepid gamester as he was in war, he was a man, in the last resort, to stake everything on the cast of the dice.

The elements declared for France.  On the afternoon of the day when Wolfe’s army landed, a violent squall swept over the St. Lawrence, dashed the ships together, drove several ashore, and destroyed many of the flatboats from which the troops had just disembarked.  “I never saw so much distress among shipping in my whole life,” writes an officer to a friend in Boston.  Fortunately the storm subsided as quickly as it rose.  Vaudreuil saw that the hoped-for deliverance had failed; and as the tempest had not destroyed the British fleet, he resolved to try the virtue of his fireships.  “I am afraid,” says Montcalm, “that they have cost us a million, and will be good for nothing after all.”  This remained to be seen.  Vaudreuil gave the chief command of them to a naval officer named Delouche; and on the evening of the twenty-eighth, after long consultation and much debate among their respective captains, they set sail together at ten o’clock.  The night was moonless and dark.  In less than an hour they were at the entrance of the north channel.  Delouche had been all enthusiasm; but as he neared the danger his nerves failed, and he set fire to his ship half an hour too soon, the rest following his example.[713]

[Footnote 713:  Foligny, Journal memoratif.  Vaudreuil au Ministre, 5 Oct. 1759.  Journal du Siege (Bibliotheque de Hartwell).]

There was an English outpost at the Point of Orleans; and, about eleven o’clock, the sentries descried through the gloom the ghostly outlines of the approaching ships.  As they gazed, these mysterious strangers began to dart tongues of flame; fire ran like lightning up their masts and sails, and then they burst out like volcanoes.  Filled as they were with pitch, tar, and every manner of combustible, mixed with fireworks, bombs, grenades, and old cannon, swivels, and muskets loaded to the throat, the effect was terrific.  The troops at the Point, amazed at the sudden eruption,