The Winning of Canada | Page 2

six foot three.
Wolfe's parents went to live at Westerham in Kent shortly after they
were married; and there, on January 2, 1727, in the vicarage--where
Mrs Wolfe was staying while her husband was away on duty with his
regiment--the victor of Quebec was born. Two other houses in the little
country town of Westerham are full of memories of Wolfe. One of
these was his father's, a house more than two hundred years old when
he was born. It was built in the reign of Henry VII, and the loyal
subject who built it had the king's coat of arms carved over the big
stone fireplace. Here Wolfe and his younger brother Edward used to sit
in the winter evenings with their mother, while their veteran father told
them the story of his long campaigns. So, curiously enough, it appears
that Wolfe, the soldier who won Canada for England in 1759, sat under
the arms of the king in whose service the sailor Cabot hoisted the flag
of England over Canadian soil in 1497. This house has been called
Quebec House ever since the victory in 1759. The other house is
Squerryes Court, belonging then and now to the Warde family, the
Wolfes' closest friends. Wolfe and George Warde were chums from the
first day they met. Both wished to go into the Army; and both, of
course, 'played soldiers,' like other virile boys. Warde lived to be an old
man and actually did become a famous cavalry leader. Perhaps when he
charged a real enemy, sword in hand, at the head of thundering
squadrons, it may have flashed through his mind how he and Wolfe had
waved their whips and cheered like mad when they galloped their
ponies down the common with nothing but their barking dogs behind
them.
Wolfe's parents presently moved to Greenwich, where he was sent to
school at Swinden's. Here he worked quietly enough till just before he
entered on his 'teens. Then the long-pent rage of England suddenly
burst in war with Spain. The people went wild when the British fleet

took Porto Bello, a Spanish port in Central America. The news was
cried through the streets all night. The noise of battle seemed to be
sounding all round Swinden's school, where most of the boys belonged
to naval and military families. Ships were fitting out in English
harbours. Soldiers were marching into every English camp. Crowds
were singing and cheering. First one boy's father and then another's was
under orders for the front. Among them was Wolfe's father, who was
made adjutant-general to the forces assembling in the Isle of Wight.
What were history and geography and mathematics now, when a whole
nation was afoot to fight! And who would not fight the Spaniards when
they cut off British sailors' ears? That was an old tale by this time; but
the flames of anger threw it into lurid relief once more.
Wolfe was determined to go and fight. Nothing could stop him. There
was no commission for him as an officer. Never mind! He would go as
a volunteer and win his commission in the field. So, one hot day in July
1740, the lanky, red-haired boy of thirteen-and-a-half took his seat on
the Portsmouth coach beside his father, the veteran soldier of fifty-five.
His mother was a woman of much too fine a spirit to grudge anything
for the service of her country; but she could not help being
exceptionally anxious about the dangers of disease for a sickly boy in a
far-off land of pestilence and fever. She had written to him the very day
he left. But he, full of the stir and excitement of a big camp, had carried
the letter in his pocket for two or three days before answering it. Then
he wrote her the first of many letters from different seats of war, the
last one of all being written just before he won the victory that made
him famous round the world.
Newport, Isle of Wight, August 6th, 1740.
I received my dearest Mamma's letter on Monday last, but could not
answer it then, by reason I was at camp to see the regiments off to go
on board, and was too late for the post; but am very sorry, dear Mamma,
that you doubt my love, which I'm sure is as sincere as ever any son's
was to his mother.
Papa and I are just going on board, but I believe shall not sail this
fortnight; in which time, if I can get ashore at Portsmouth or any other

town, I will certainly write to you, and, when we are gone, by every
ship we meet, because I know it is my duty. Besides, if it is not, I
would do it out of love,