Towards ten o’clock, the French advanced to the attack.  Their centre was formed of regular troops, only, with regulars and Canadian battalions on either flank.  Two field pieces which, with enormous labour, the English had dragged up the path from the landing place, at once opened fire with grape upon the French line.

The advance was badly conducted.  The French regulars marched steadily on, but the Canadians, firing as they advanced, threw themselves on the ground to reload, and this broke the regularity of the line.  The English advanced some little distance, to meet their foes, and then halted.

Not a shot was fired until the French were within forty paces, and then, at the word of command, a volley of musketry crashed out along the whole length of the line.  So regularly was the volley given, that the French officers afterwards said that it sounded like a single cannon shot.  Another volley followed, and then the continuous roar of independent firing.

When the smoke cleared off a little, its effects could be seen.  The French had halted where they stood, and, among them, the dead and wounded were thickly strewn.  All order and regularity had been lost under that terrible fire, and, in three minutes, the line of advancing soldiers was broken up into a disorderly shouting mob.  Then Wolfe gave the order to charge, and the British cheer, mingled with the wild yell of the Highlanders, rose loud and fierce.  The English regiments advanced with levelled bayonets.  The Highlanders drew their broadswords and rushed headlong forward.

The charge was decisive.  The French were swept helplessly before it, and the battle was at an end, save that the scattered parties of Canadians and Indians kept up, for some time, a fire from the bushes and cornfields.

Their fire was heaviest on the British right, where Wolfe himself led the charge, at the head of the Louisbourg Grenadiers.  A shot shattered his wrist.  He wrapped his handkerchief around it and kept on.  Another shot struck him, but he still advanced.  When a third pierced his breast, he staggered and sat down.  Two or three officers and men carried him to the rear, and then laid him down, and asked if they should send for a surgeon.

“There is no need,” he said.  “It is all over with me.”

A moment later, one of those standing by him cried out: 

“They run, see how they run!”

“Who run?” Wolfe asked.

“The enemy, sir.  They give way everywhere.”

“Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton,” Wolfe said.  “Tell him to march Webb’s regiment down to the Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge;” then, turning on his side, he said: 

“Now, God be praised, I will die in peace!” and, a few minutes later, he expired.

Montcalm, still on horseback, was borne by the tide of fugitives towards the town.  As he neared the gate, a shot passed through his body.