He marched through the forest of Maine, then
an almost unknown country and uninhabited save by Indians. It was
a tremendous march, and one that needed all the grit and endurance
of brave, determined men. They climbed hills, struggled through
swamps, paddled across lakes and down unknown streams. Sometimes
they waded up to their knees in icy waters pushing their canoes
before them against the rapid current, or again they carried them
over long portages, shouldering their way through forest so dense
that they could scarcely advance a mile an hour. At night soaked
with rain and sleet they slept upon the snowy ground. Their food
gave out, and the pangs of hunger were added to their other miseries.
Many died by the way; others, losing heart, turned back. But sick
and giddy, starving and exhausted the rest stumbled onward, and at
length little more than five hundred ragged half armed, more than
half famished men, reached the shores of the St. Lawrence.
They were a sorry little company with which to invade a vast
province. But their courage was superb, their hope sublime, and
without delay they set out to take the great fortress which had
withstood so many sieges, and had only fallen at last before the
genius and daring of Wolfe.
Across the St. Lawrence this little company of intrepid colonists
paddled, up the path where Wolfe had led his men they climbed, and
stood at length where they had stood upon the heights of Abraham.
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