12. Heroes and Villains of French and Indian War: The Siege of Quebec and the Battle of the Plains of Abraham

My Name is François Bigot: Intendant of New France

I was born in Bordeaux in 1703, a city known for its wine and trade. My family had connections that allowed me to enter government service, and I quickly rose through the administrative ranks. I was educated to understand law, finance, and the art of supply—skills that would later define my career. Ambition drove me, and I sought to prove myself as a capable servant of the French crown.

Service in Louisbourg

Before arriving in Quebec, I served as Intendant at Louisbourg on Île Royale. There, I managed the colony’s finances, trade, and provisions. Louisbourg was vital for protecting France’s fishing interests and controlling access to the St. Lawrence. My years in Louisbourg taught me how fragile colonial supply lines could be and how much influence merchants and officials wielded. Though I was accused of favoritism and profiteering even then, I considered it the necessary grease that kept the gears of empire turning.

Intendant of New France

In 1748, I was appointed Intendant of New France, stationed in Quebec. This meant I was responsible for the colony’s finances, justice, and policing. Governors commanded armies, but I ensured they had money, supplies, and organization. The colony was vast and thinly populated, dependent on goods shipped from France. Every shortage, every delay, every lost cargo fell on my shoulders. It was a position of great power but also of constant criticism.

Corruption and Scandal

My enemies accused me of corruption, of lining my own pockets while the colony starved. Yes, I worked closely with merchants and officials in what some called the “Grande Société”—a network that controlled much of New France’s commerce. But the truth is more complex. Supplies were scarce, prices were high, and deals had to be struck quickly to keep soldiers and settlers alive. If I profited, so did others. To govern was to balance loyalty to the crown with survival in a harsh and unforgiving land.

The Siege of Quebec

When the British descended on Quebec in 1759, the colony was already strained by famine and shortages. I did what I could to provide Montcalm with food, arms, and support, but corruption charges and bitter politics poisoned our efforts. Many blamed me for the suffering of civilians as shells fell on Quebec City. I watched as morale collapsed and as accusations grew louder. The fall of the city was not only a military defeat but a personal humiliation.

Return to France and Trial

After the war, I returned to France, but peace offered me no safety. I was arrested and tried in Paris, accused of corruption and mismanagement that supposedly led to the loss of Canada. I defended myself, pointing to the impossible circumstances and the lack of sufficient support from the crown itself. In 1763, I was sentenced to banishment from Paris and fined heavily. Though my life was spared, my name was stained forever in French history.

Final Years

I lived out my last years in relative obscurity, far from the power and influence I once wielded. I reflected often on my choices. Was I truly corrupt, or was I a scapegoat for a war that France was destined to lose? I know I was ambitious, I know I made enemies, and I know I profited. But I also know that without my efforts, New France might have collapsed far sooner. History may judge me harshly, but I will always see myself as a man caught between duty, survival, and ambition.

The Strain on New France (1758) – Told by François Bigot

As Intendant of New France, the year 1758 pressed down on me like a heavy stone. My duty was to ensure that soldiers had powder and bread, that families had seed for planting, and that ships carried enough goods from France to sustain a colony thousands of miles away. Yet war drains a land of its lifeblood. The British had cut into our trade routes, and their fleet prowled the Atlantic. Each ship that failed to arrive left us weaker and more desperate.

Shortages Everywhere

By 1758, shortages touched every household in the colony. Farmers struggled to keep their grain, for much of it was seized to feed the army. Meat was scarce, salt for preservation ran thin, and tools and clothing wore out faster than they could be replaced. Soldiers grumbled at half rations, and civilians lined up at storehouses, pleading for relief. Hunger does not respect rank, and even the well-born in Quebec City felt the pinch of scarcity.

Accusations of Corruption

With scarcity came suspicion, and with suspicion came accusations. Merchants and rivals accused me of profiting while others starved. They said I kept the best goods for myself and allowed prices to climb beyond reach. It is true that deals were made, and that contracts enriched a few. But I ask: what choice did I have? Supplies cannot appear from thin air. When resources are few, someone will always pay more, and those with connections will always find their way first to the table. I was blamed because I was the one holding the ledger.

A Fragile System

The truth is that New France was fragile long before the British closed in. We were a colony stretched thin across a vast wilderness, dependent on ships that crossed an ocean controlled by our enemies. Our population was small, our fields could not feed all mouths, and our treasury was drained by war. I bore the responsibility for this crumbling system, but I did not build it alone. The crown in France demanded victory yet sent too little to make it possible.

Foreshadowing Collapse

By the end of 1758, I could see the cracks widening. Louisbourg had fallen, and the St. Lawrence was exposed. The army grew restless, and the people murmured against me. I knew that if fortune did not change, Quebec itself would soon be under threat. I carried on, writing orders, arranging shipments, and striking bargains. But deep inside I feared that the weight of empire placed on New France was too great for any man—intendant or governor—to bear.

My Name is James Murray: Soldier and Governor of Quebec

I was born in 1721 in Ballencrieff, Scotland, the son of a noble family. From an early age, I was raised with the expectation that I would serve the crown through military service. Scotland in my youth was a land of shifting loyalties, but I remained committed to Britain. I sought discipline, honor, and a career that would bring both reputation and service to my family name.

First Steps in the Army

I joined the British Army and soon found myself serving in campaigns across Europe. I fought during the War of the Austrian Succession, where I gained valuable experience in both leadership and endurance. The hardships of campaigning taught me that war was not glory alone—it was hunger, exhaustion, and death. Yet it was also a place where ambition could rise, and I resolved to make myself indispensable to my commanders.

The Seven Years’ War

When Britain turned its attention to North America during the Seven Years’ War, I was sent as a brigadier under General Wolfe. We were tasked with capturing Quebec, the heart of New France. I respected Wolfe, though his temperament was often sharp and his health fragile. Still, his vision was bold, and I stood ready to see it through.

The Siege of Quebec

In 1759, I commanded part of the army that besieged Quebec. We faced strong defenses, supply challenges, and the determination of Montcalm’s forces. I witnessed firsthand the suffering of civilians under our bombardment, but I also knew that breaking their spirit was part of war. When Wolfe made his daring decision to land at Anse-au-Foulon, I led men onto the Plains of Abraham. It was a swift and decisive victory, though both Wolfe and Montcalm fell in the battle.

Governor of Quebec

After the city’s fall, I was left with the responsibility of defending Quebec through the harsh winter of 1759–1760. It was a desperate season of hunger and disease, but we held firm. In 1760, I also commanded at the Battle of Sainte-Foy, where the French under Lévis nearly retook the city. It was one of the bloodiest fights I ever endured, and though we were driven back within Quebec’s walls, we held until reinforcements arrived.

Administrator and Protector

When peace came, I became governor of Quebec. My task was not simply to govern but to balance the demands of British officials with the needs of French Canadians. I surprised many by showing leniency and respect for Catholic traditions and French law. I believed that ruling with fairness was wiser than ruling with cruelty. This earned me the trust of many French Canadians, though it angered some of my fellow Britons.

Later Years

I continued to serve the crown faithfully, later becoming governor of Minorca. Yet Quebec remained the defining chapter of my career. I had seen an empire change hands, and I had played a part in shaping its future. When I died in 1794, I left behind the legacy of a soldier who became a governor, a man who believed that conquest should be followed not by oppression but by justice.

The Fall of Louisbourg (1758) – Told by James Murray

Louisbourg was no ordinary town. It was France’s great stronghold on Île Royale, guarding the entrance to the St. Lawrence River. Its walls were thick, its cannons heavy, and its harbor a safe haven for fleets that supplied New France. For years, British commanders had dreamed of taking it, knowing that without Louisbourg, Quebec itself could be reached. In 1758, that dream finally became a plan, and I was among those chosen to see it through.

The British Assault

Under the command of Jeffery Amherst, supported by Admiral Boscawen’s fleet, we landed our forces against strong opposition. The French fought bravely to keep us off their shores, but the weight of our numbers and the fire from our ships forced them back. Once ashore, we began the long and grinding task of tightening the noose around the fortress. Siege warfare is as much about patience as it is about courage, and each day we crept closer, building trenches, setting batteries, and unleashing fire upon the defenders.

The Strain on the Defenders

Inside Louisbourg, the French soldiers and townspeople endured terrible hardship. Supplies ran low, walls crumbled under bombardment, and the harbor became a graveyard for their ships. One by one, their guns were silenced, and their ability to resist slipped away. The once-proud fortress, thought to be unbreakable, was reduced to rubble and despair.

Victory and Its Consequences

When Louisbourg finally surrendered, the triumph was greater than a single fortress taken. The victory gave Britain control of the mouth of the St. Lawrence. No longer could the French keep their enemies from sailing upriver toward Quebec. It also shattered French morale, for Louisbourg had been their shield, and now that shield was gone. For us, it meant the road was open to strike at the very heart of New France.

Looking Ahead to Quebec

I knew then, as did many of us, that the fall of Louisbourg was the beginning of the end for French Canada. With its loss, their colonies were exposed, their supply lines cut, and their fate sealed. In 1758, we had not yet won the war, but we had broken its foundation. The St. Lawrence now lay before us, and soon our eyes turned upriver to Quebec, the citadel that would decide the future of an empire.

My Name is Guyasuta: Seneca Leader and Diplomat

I was born around 1725 into the Seneca nation, one of the Six Nations of the Haudenosaunee, or Iroquois Confederacy. From my earliest days I learned the ways of the forest, the river, and the hunt. Our people prized skill, courage, and wisdom, and I grew into a man who understood not only the bow and musket but also the power of words. My role was shaped by both tradition and the turbulent times in which I lived.

First Encounters with the British

As a young man, I traveled widely and even guided George Washington on one of his journeys through the Ohio Country. I saw the ambition of the British colonists and the pressure they put on our lands. At first, I believed that alliances with powerful outsiders could serve our people’s interests. But I also recognized the danger of being caught between two great empires—Britain and France—both eager to claim lands that had always belonged to us.

The French Alliance

When war broke out between France and Britain, many Seneca and other Haudenosaunee sought neutrality. Yet I leaned toward the French, who had long traded with us and treated us as allies rather than settlers. I fought alongside French soldiers and warriors from other nations. I believed that helping them would keep British expansion at bay, but I also knew the French could not hold forever without our support.

The Siege of Quebec

During the great struggle for Quebec, I joined scouting parties and raids. We harassed British lines, burned supplies, and carried intelligence back to the French commanders. Yet even as we fought, I began to see the limits of French power. Their supplies dwindled, their leaders argued, and their promises rang hollow. When Quebec fell in 1759, it was clear that the balance of power in North America had shifted forever.

Pontiac’s War

After the British victory, unrest spread across the Great Lakes and the Ohio Valley. I stood beside Pontiac in resistance against the British forts and settlers who pushed deeper into our lands. We fought fiercely to defend what was ours, laying siege to forts and reminding the British that conquest would not bring peace. Though the uprising did not expel them, it forced the British to reconsider how they treated us.

Later Years as a Diplomat

As I grew older, I became a voice for negotiation as much as for war. I met with British and later American leaders, trying to secure peace and protect our homeland. I saw treaties made and treaties broken, promises spoken and forgotten. My role was often to remind powerful men that our nations were not pawns but people with rights and traditions.

Reflections on a Changing World

I lived until about 1790, long enough to see the birth of a new nation, the United States. I had guided Washington in his youth and later faced his people as conquerors. My life was spent balancing war and diplomacy, always seeking what would keep the Seneca strong. I know that some remember me as a warrior and others as a negotiator, but I was always both. I stood at the crossroads of empires, trying to hold fast to the ways of my ancestors while navigating a world that changed with every battle and every treaty.

Indigenous Unease after Louisbourg – Told by Guyasuta

When Louisbourg fell in 1758, it was not only a French fortress that crumbled. For us, the nations of the Great Lakes and Ohio Country, it signaled a change in the balance of power. The French had long been our trading partners, our allies in battle, and, at times, our protectors against the endless push of British settlers. With their great stronghold gone, we asked ourselves whether France could still hold this land, and what place we would have in the struggle that followed.

Uncertain Promises

The French had promised us much—guns, powder, goods, and respect for our hunting grounds. Yet promises are only as strong as the ships that carry supplies across the ocean. When Louisbourg fell, we saw fewer goods arriving, fewer soldiers coming, and fewer reasons to believe that France could keep its word. The British, for their part, spoke of friendship too, but we knew their hunger was not just for trade but for land.

Voices of Division

Among our people, there was no single path forward. Some argued we must stand by the French, for they had treated us more as allies than subjects. Others said it was time to make peace with the British, who seemed to grow stronger with each season. Still others wished to stand apart, to fight neither side, though such neutrality was hard to maintain when both empires demanded allegiance. Around council fires, debates burned as hot as the embers.

The Fear of Losing Our Lands

More than anything, we feared what the fall of Louisbourg might mean for our lands. With the French weakened, British settlers would push farther into the Ohio Valley, cutting down forests, planting fields, and driving away the game. For us, the war was not about distant kings or crowns, but about the rivers, hunting grounds, and villages that gave life to our children.

The Path Ahead

After Louisbourg, I knew that the struggle for our future would grow more desperate. We could no longer trust that the French alone could shield us, and the British showed little restraint in their desire for land. Our unease grew into a hard truth: if we wished to endure, we would need to fight for our own survival, sometimes with words, sometimes with war clubs and muskets. Louisbourg’s fall was not only the beginning of the end for New France—it was also the beginning of a new and uncertain chapter for us.

My Name is Marie-Anne Lemaire: A Woman of Quebec

I was born in Quebec in the 1730s, in a small stone house near the St. Lawrence River. My father was a farmer who worked the seigneur’s land, and my mother managed our home with tireless devotion. Life was simple but not easy. The winters were long, and food was often scarce. Still, we were taught to be proud of our faith, our family, and our French heritage. Parish bells marked the rhythm of our lives, from baptisms to burials.

Marriage and Family Life

As I grew older, I married a local tradesman, a cooper who made barrels for merchants and the army. Together we raised children, teaching them prayers, songs, and the skills needed to survive in a colony far from France. Our lives were filled with work—tending gardens, mending clothes, and trading goods at the market. We trusted that the French king across the ocean would protect us, though we often felt forgotten.

Whispers of War

When the wars with Britain spread to our land, rumors reached us long before the soldiers did. We heard of the fall of Louisbourg and of battles in the Ohio Valley. Men were called away to fight, leaving women, children, and the old to carry the burdens of farm and household. Each parish prayed for peace, yet we knew that war was moving ever closer to Quebec.

The Siege of Quebec

In 1759, our city was surrounded. British ships filled the river, their cannons thundering day and night. I remember the terror as shells smashed through rooftops, setting houses ablaze. Families huddled in cellars, clutching rosaries, praying the next strike would not be ours. Food became scarce, and we lived on bread and thin soup. The cries of hungry children still echo in my memory.

The Battle on the Plains

One September morning, word spread that the British had climbed the cliffs. We watched smoke rise beyond the walls as Montcalm led his men to fight. By midday, rumors whispered that both generals—Wolfe and Montcalm—had fallen. The city grew silent with dread. When the British entered, some cursed them, others prayed. For us civilians, survival meant keeping our families together, no matter which flag flew above the ramparts.

Life under British Rule

The winter that followed was cruel. Disease and hunger stalked us. The British soldiers kept watch, but some offered kindness, sharing rations or medicine. Priests reminded us to keep faith, and we leaned on one another more than ever. Slowly, the city adjusted to new rulers. Our language, our church, and our way of life endured, though everything around us seemed uncertain.

Reflections of an Ordinary Life

I lived through the fall of New France and saw the world around me change forever. My story is not one of generals or governors, but of mothers, fathers, and children who bore the weight of war. We were the ones who endured the hunger, the bombardments, and the fear. I tell my tale so that the memory of ordinary Quebecois will not be lost among the voices of kings and soldiers. History is written in battles, but it is also lived in kitchens, markets, and chapels, where we struggled, prayed, and hoped for peace.

Daily Life in Quebec before the Siege – Told by Marie-Anne Lemaire

In the years before the siege, our lives in Quebec carried on as they always had, though with a shadow hanging over us. The markets bustled with farmers bringing in what little they could spare, and the church bells rang faithfully, but we knew the war was creeping closer. The soldiers drilled in the streets, cannon were hauled to the ramparts, and families were asked to store food in case of emergency. Every task we did—from baking bread to mending clothes—felt heavier, as if we were preparing for a storm we could not avoid.

Scarcity in Everyday Life

Even before the first British ship appeared, we felt the shortages. Grain was harder to find, and meat was dearer than ever. Salt, iron tools, and cloth became treasures to guard carefully. My children grew used to smaller meals, and I stretched flour with roots and herbs to make it last. We whispered to one another about the wealthy who could still feast while ordinary families scraped by. The hardships made us resentful, but also resourceful, for survival demanded that nothing be wasted.

Rumors of Invasion

At every gathering, rumors swirled like autumn leaves in the wind. Some said the British were massing at Louisbourg, others that they were already sailing up the St. Lawrence. Travelers brought tales of French defeats far away, and parish priests urged us to stay faithful and strong. I remember lying awake at night, listening for cannon fire that never came, wondering if the dawn would bring invaders. Fear lived with us daily, even as we continued the work of tending gardens, teaching children, and praying for peace.

A City on Edge

Quebec before the siege was still alive with laughter, songs, and weddings, but beneath it all ran tension. Every hammer striking wood for fortifications reminded us of danger. Every empty barrel in the market told of coming hunger. We carried on because life demanded it, but in our hearts, we knew the city was waiting for a test unlike any we had ever faced. Our daily lives were simple, yet each moment was colored by the knowledge that war was coming, and that soon nothing would be the same.

The British Strategy for 1759 – Told by James Murray

The year 1759 was shaped by the will of William Pitt, Britain’s great war minister. He believed that the surest way to defeat France was not only in Europe but across the seas. North America was to be the prize, and Quebec was its jewel. Pitt poured men, ships, and money into the campaign, determined that the British flag would fly above the citadel on the St. Lawrence. His vision was bold, and his confidence spread to those of us who would carry it out.

Three-Pronged Assault

Pitt’s design was not simply to strike Quebec but to break French Canada entirely. Three armies would move at once: one pushing up the St. Lawrence to Quebec, one advancing along Lake Champlain to threaten Montreal, and another pressing into the Ohio Valley. This pressure would stretch French defenses to the breaking point, leaving them unable to reinforce one front without weakening another. It was a plan to suffocate New France.

The Role of the Fleet

The Royal Navy was to be the sharp edge of the spear. Admiral Saunders commanded a fleet vast enough to blockade the river and carry Wolfe’s army upriver to Quebec itself. By controlling the waterways, we could cut French supply lines, prevent reinforcements, and deliver blows where they least expected them. For the first time, Britain’s command of the sea became the deciding factor in the fate of Canada.

The Choice of Wolfe

Pitt chose General James Wolfe to lead the assault on Quebec. Though young and plagued by ill health, Wolfe was relentless and daring. His selection was no accident, for Pitt believed audacity would succeed where caution might fail. My role, as one of his brigadiers, was to carry out his orders, though I often tempered his fiery nature with steadier counsel. Together with Townshend and Monckton, we formed the command that would bring Pitt’s vision to life.

The Goal Ahead

The strategy of 1759 was not a single stroke but a campaign meant to crush French resistance. Pitt’s plan gave us the men, the ships, and the orders to do what years of fighting had not yet achieved. As we sailed up the St. Lawrence, I knew that this was more than a battle for Quebec. It was the turning point of an empire, and if we succeeded, the fate of North America would be sealed in Britain’s favor.

The French Defensive Preparations – Told by François Bigot

As Intendant, it fell to me to ensure that Montcalm’s soldiers had what they needed to defend New France. Powder, muskets, uniforms, wagons, and above all, food—every request passed through my hands. But by 1759, the coffers of France were stretched thin, and the seas were no longer ours. British ships prowled the Atlantic, and each convoy that left France faced capture before it could reach Quebec. I was expected to perform miracles with resources that dwindled by the month.

Montcalm’s Demands

The Marquis de Montcalm was a brilliant soldier, but he often clashed with me. He demanded supplies for thousands of men, fortifications along miles of river, and provisions for Native allies who fought by his side. His demands were not unreasonable for a general at war, but they far outweighed what I could provide. I scrambled to gather grain from reluctant farmers, to seize goods from merchants, and to stretch every barrel of powder further than it was meant to go. Montcalm saw shortages as failure; I saw them as inevitability.

The Strain on the People

Our defensive preparations came at a terrible cost to the colony’s people. Farmers were ordered to hand over their crops, leaving their families with little for themselves. Craftsmen were forced into service, repairing walls and hauling supplies for the army. Civilians resented me for these measures, yet without them, the army would have had nothing. Every complaint, every hungry cry, echoed back to my name, but I believed the defense of Quebec demanded sacrifice.

Fortifying Quebec

We labored to strengthen the city’s walls, raise batteries, and stockpile food within the gates. Cannon were positioned along the cliffs, and militia were trained to defend their homes. I worked night and day to ensure there was at least a semblance of readiness. But readiness is a relative thing when your enemy commands the sea and brings more men, more guns, and more food than you could hope to match.

An Unwinnable Struggle

I did all I could to stretch what little we had, but even as we prepared, I knew our position was fragile. Montcalm’s army was brave, but it fought on empty stomachs. Our defenses were strong, but they could not stop the river from carrying British ships straight to Quebec’s heart. My efforts may be remembered as corruption or incompetence, but I know the truth: no man, however diligent or resourceful, could have prepared enough to meet the storm that was about to break upon us.

Indigenous Diplomacy in 1759 – Told by Guyasuta

In 1759, as the great powers closed in on Quebec, our people faced choices that carried the weight of generations. The French had been our allies in trade and war for decades, yet their strength was fading. The British pressed harder with every season, offering words of friendship while sending more settlers into our lands. As a leader among the Seneca, I found myself walking between two worlds, trying to preserve the independence of our people while the empires fought over ground that was ours.

Talks with the French

The French called us to councils, laying out wampum belts and promising continued trade and protection. They reminded us of battles fought together, of alliances sealed with gifts and ceremonies. But I could see the strain in their eyes. Their stores were thin, their soldiers tired, and their ships few. They spoke proudly, yet their hands were nearly empty. We respected the friendship of the French, but we wondered if they had the strength to keep their promises.

Talks with the British

At the same time, the British sent envoys with gifts of their own. They spoke of peace, of mutual respect, and of protecting our lands. But behind their words we saw the hunger for farms, towns, and roads stretching westward. We had guided their men before, even Washington, and we knew how quickly their promises could change when land and power were at stake. Still, the British had ships, guns, and fresh supplies. To ignore their strength was to invite ruin.

The Struggle for Neutrality

Many of our councils debated whether to lean toward France, toward Britain, or to remain apart. Neutrality was what many desired, but neutrality is fragile when both sides demand warriors and scouts. To refuse risked angering one empire, while choosing risked being betrayed by the other. We sought to play both sides, offering limited help here, holding back there, always trying to keep the balance in our favor.

Our True Goal

For us, diplomacy in 1759 was not about crowns or empires but about survival. We fought to protect our villages, our rivers, and our hunting grounds. We listened to French words and British words, yet always we measured them against what they meant for our children. In that year of decision, we learned that our power lay not in choosing masters but in reminding both empires that we were not subjects, but nations of our own, standing on the land of our ancestors.

Arrival of Wolfe’s Fleet (June 1759) – Told by Marie-Anne Lemaire

It was early summer when we first saw them. The river that had so often brought us traders, fishermen, and small convoys now bore a sight that froze us in place. Sail after sail appeared on the horizon, white against the blue of the St. Lawrence. At first, we thought it could not be real, so many ships moving together, but soon the truth spread—this was Wolfe’s fleet, come to take our city.

The Immensity of the Armada

Never had I seen so many vessels. They filled the river like a forest of masts, stretching farther than the eye could follow. Warships bristling with cannon, transports heavy with soldiers, and smaller craft darting about like insects. The St. Lawrence, which had always been our lifeline, was suddenly turned against us, carrying the enemy straight to our gates. Children clutched their mothers, and men stood silent, knowing that the storm had arrived.

Fear Among the People

The news raced through the streets. Markets emptied as people hurried home. Some wept openly, others crossed themselves and prayed. I remember neighbors gathering on the ramparts, staring out at the endless sails with dread. Rumors spread faster than truth—some claimed there were twenty thousand men, others that Wolfe had sworn to burn Quebec to the ground. All of us felt the same chill: we were outmatched, and we knew it.

The Weight of Waiting

As the fleet anchored and prepared for action, our city held its breath. Soldiers rushed to man the defenses, priests called for prayer, and families stocked what little food they had. Each day we woke wondering if this would be the day the bombardment began. The sight of the armada never left our minds, for it was a constant reminder that we were trapped, our city encircled by the greatest force we had ever seen.

A Summer of Uncertainty

The arrival of Wolfe’s fleet in June 1759 marked the end of calm in Quebec. From that moment, we lived in fear and in prayer, watching the river that once brought us life now carry our greatest threat. For us civilians, it was the moment when war was no longer distant rumor but a reality anchored outside our very doors.

The Siege Begins – Told by James Murray

When Wolfe’s fleet had secured its place on the St. Lawrence, our next task was to tighten the grip around Quebec. We landed men on both shores, cutting off access to the city from the countryside. Small detachments raided farms, seizing livestock and burning supplies meant for Montcalm’s army. It was not cruelty for cruelty’s sake, but a deliberate effort to starve the defenders and deny them comfort. Every day the circle grew smaller, every path into the city more dangerous.

Positioning the Guns

Our engineers worked tirelessly, dragging heavy cannon into place on the heights and the shores opposite Quebec. It was backbreaking labor, yet essential. Once emplaced, these guns turned their iron mouths toward the city. Each battery was a knife at Quebec’s throat, prepared to slice away its strength. I oversaw men who had never known such work, but the promise of victory drove them on. Soon, we had a line of artillery capable of pounding the city at will.

The Bombardment Begins

When the first shots rang out, the sound echoed across the river valleys. Cannonballs smashed into houses, churches, and storehouses, setting fires that lit the night sky. Our bombardment was relentless, day after day, night after night. Quebec’s defenders could do little to silence us, their own guns fewer and their powder precious. Smoke hung over the city like a shroud, and the cries of its people reached even our camps across the water.

The Pressure on Montcalm

Montcalm’s men held firm within their lines, but I could sense their growing despair. Each bombardment wore down not just stone walls but also morale. Supplies dwindled, and the people of Quebec felt the weight of hunger and fear. Montcalm was a clever commander, yet even he could not conjure bread for starving mouths nor rebuild houses reduced to ash. We knew that time was on our side, and we pressed it ruthlessly.

The Waiting Game

A siege is not a single clash but a slow tightening of the noose. For weeks, we struck the city with fire and iron, cutting off its lifelines, watching it weaken. We knew that Quebec could not withstand both our bombardment and the hunger within. Still, we waited for the right moment to strike with soldiers, for only then could we claim the city. The siege was a cruel business, but it was the surest path to victory.

Life under Bombardment – Told by Marie-Anne Lemaire

When the British guns opened fire, it felt as though the heavens themselves had turned against us. Day and night the cannon roared, their shells whistling overhead before crashing into the city. The earth trembled beneath our feet, and sleep became a memory. Each blast brought new fear, for we never knew whose roof would collapse or whose family would be left in mourning.

Fires in the Streets

The bombardment did more than break walls—it set the city ablaze. Flames spread quickly through the narrow streets, leaping from house to house. Buckets of water seemed useless against the inferno. I remember running with neighbors, forming lines to douse the flames, while sparks rained down on our heads. The air was thick with smoke, and the cries of children mixed with the shouts of men trying to save what little remained.

The Hunger Within

As the siege wore on, hunger became our constant companion. Bread grew scarce, and what little flour we had was stretched with roots and weeds. Meat was almost impossible to find, and many of us lived on thin broth and prayers. Children begged for food, their voices weaker with each passing day. Mothers gave up their own portions so their little ones might have strength, though often it was not enough.

The Weight of Fear

Every shell that fell carried terror with it. We huddled in cellars, clutching rosaries, whispering prayers, and waiting for the crash that might end our lives. I remember hearing neighbors scream as their home was struck, the sound of stone and timber collapsing in an instant. We lived from moment to moment, never certain if we would see the morning light. Fear seeped into every corner of our lives, leaving us weary and hollow.

The Spirit of the People

Yet even in those dark days, we tried to hold to hope. Priests walked among us, offering blessings and courage. Families shared what little they had, dividing scraps of food, comforting the sick, and mourning the lost together. We sang hymns in broken voices, not to drive away the cannon fire, but to remind ourselves that we were still alive. Life under bombardment was suffering, yet it was also resilience, for though the shells fell without mercy, our spirit endured as long as we had breath.

French Morale and Corruption Charges – Told by François Bigot

By the height of the siege, the spirit of New France was breaking. Hunger gnawed at soldier and civilian alike, and the endless thunder of British guns weighed heavy on every heart. Men who once marched proudly under the fleur-de-lis now muttered in the streets, and families whispered that God had abandoned us. I could feel the despair spreading like disease, for morale is as vital to war as powder and bread.

The Accusations Against Me

In such desperate times, anger seeks a target, and too often it fell upon me. Merchants and rivals claimed I hoarded supplies, that I grew rich while the people starved. They accused me of creating a web of corruption, where contracts and goods flowed only to my friends. It is true that wealth passed through my hands, for I was the Intendant, but I did not conjure the shortages. It was not I who blocked the seas or commanded the ships that never came.

My Defense of Necessity

I will not deny that I struck bargains, that I made arrangements which profited some. But these were not acts of greed alone—they were acts of necessity. When supplies are scarce, when war devours resources faster than they can be delivered, one must choose who receives what little there is. To keep the army fed, I took grain from farmers. To arm the soldiers, I dealt with merchants at high prices. It was imperfect, even unjust at times, but it was the only way to keep New France alive for as long as it endured.

The Weight of Blame

Still, the people did not see it so. They saw their empty tables, their ruined homes, and their children growing thin. They wanted someone to answer for their suffering, and my name became the one they cursed. Even Montcalm, who knew the truth of our weakness, let the whispers grow. It is easy to condemn the man who handles the purse, for money is always seen as tainted when there is not enough to go around.

A Legacy of Shadows

I know how history remembers me: corrupt, greedy, the man who betrayed New France. Yet I say this—I was no more corrupt than the system I was given, no more greedy than the crown that demanded victory without sending means to secure it. I bore the hatred of a colony because I stood between its hunger and its failing empire. If that is corruption, then so be it. I carried the burden, and though my name is blackened, I did what I thought necessary to hold the colony together for as long as humanly possible.

Native Raids and Scouting – Told by Guyasuta

For our people, war was not the march of armies in straight lines, nor the thunder of cannons pounding walls. Our way was different, shaped by the forest, the river, and the night. In 1759, when Quebec was under threat, our warriors used these ways to strike at the British. We could not match their numbers or their ships, but we could remind them that no camp, no patrol, and no supply line was ever truly safe.

Striking from the Shadows

We moved in small bands, slipping through woods and along hidden paths. At night, we crept near British camps, waiting for the right moment to strike. Sometimes we burned wagons or cut down sentries before melting back into the darkness. Other times, we attacked isolated patrols, scattering them before they could even raise their muskets. Each raid was a warning that the land itself resisted their presence.

Scouting the Enemy

Beyond raiding, we were the eyes and ears of the French. We watched the movement of ships on the river, counted regiments marching along the shore, and marked the places where cannon were being dragged into position. We carried this knowledge back to Montcalm, who needed every scrap of intelligence to plan his defenses. Our scouting was as valuable as any musket fired, for without it, the French would have fought blind.

The Effect on the British

Though the British army was strong, our raids wore on their spirit. Soldiers grew fearful when they ventured into the woods, knowing warriors might be waiting. Convoys moved slower, patrols grew larger, and every step outside their lines carried unease. They had cannon and fleets, but we had silence, speed, and the cover of the land. Even in the midst of their siege, we reminded them they were never secure.

A Fight for Our Homelands

For us, these raids were not just for the French—they were for ourselves. The forests we fought in were our hunting grounds, the rivers our lifeblood. By striking the British, we defended more than Quebec; we defended the right of our people to live free on our lands. Each arrow loosed, each musket fired, was a message that we would not yield quietly, even as the great empires fought over the fate of our world.

Failed British Assaults (July 1759) – Told by James Murray

In July of 1759, after weeks of bombardment, Wolfe grew restless. He wished for a bold stroke that might break the French defenses quickly. The Beauport shore, east of Quebec, seemed a promising target. Montcalm had entrenched his men there, but Wolfe believed a concentrated landing could dislodge them. Orders were given, boats prepared, and we officers made ready to lead our regiments into the surf.

The Landing at Beauport

On the morning of the attack, our boats pushed off under heavy fire. Waves and wind fought us, while French cannon from the cliffs above tore into our ranks. Men struggled to keep order as the boats grounded in the shallows. Those who made it ashore faced a storm of musket fire and grapeshot. The Beauport entrenchments were stronger than we had been led to believe, and Montcalm’s militia and regulars held firm against our advance.

The Chaos of Battle

What followed was confusion and blood. Soldiers slipped in the mud, standards fell, and cries echoed over the roar of guns. The French counterattacked with vigor, driving us back toward the boats. I remember the frustration of watching brave men cut down before they could even form ranks. The tide turned against us, and there was nothing to do but sound the retreat. We pulled back, leaving many dead and wounded behind.

The Cost of Failure

The assault had achieved nothing but loss. Hundreds of our men lay scattered on the shore, and the French celebrated a victory that strengthened their morale. Wolfe was bitterly disappointed, and so were we. The attack had proven that storming well-defended positions head-on was folly, yet it had also taught us a lesson we would not forget. Montcalm had shown his skill, but we now understood that brute force would not win Quebec.

Lessons Learned

The failure at Beauport weighed heavily on the army, but it also sharpened our resolve. Wolfe began to consider new approaches, and we officers knew we must be more cunning if we were to succeed. The July assaults were a setback, but they prepared us for the greater gamble yet to come. In war, failure can be as instructive as victory, and from the mud of Beauport, the path to the Plains of Abraham slowly took shape.

The Turning Point at Montmorency – Told by James Murray

After our failed attempts at Beauport, Wolfe turned his eyes toward Montmorency. There, the French had positioned themselves on high ground near the falls, with entrenchments that seemed formidable yet not unassailable. Wolfe believed that by striking here, we might finally force Montcalm into open battle. Orders were given, and we prepared to land once more, determined to redeem the losses of July.

The Battle Unfolds

On the day of the assault, our men advanced with courage, but the terrain betrayed us. The tide was late, and the ground near the shore turned to mud, slowing our movement and breaking our formations. As we struggled forward, French fire poured down from their positions above. Smoke and confusion filled the air, and men fell in heaps as we tried to press on. What was meant to be a decisive blow became a muddled clash against an enemy who held every advantage.

The Retreat

Realizing the futility of the attack, Wolfe gave the order to withdraw. Our soldiers pulled back under heavy fire, many stumbling through the rising tide as they tried to reach the boats. The losses were grievous, and the disappointment deeper still. Once again, the French had turned us back, and once again, Quebec stood defiant. I remember the grim faces of the men as they returned to camp, the weight of failure pressing heavier than their muskets.

The Lesson Learned

At Montmorency, we learned what Beauport had already hinted—that direct assaults against entrenched positions were doomed to fail. The French, though fewer in number, were skilled defenders, and the ground itself favored them. To defeat them, we would need more than strength and courage. We would need guile, patience, and a strike where they least expected it.

The Turning of the Mind

Though the battle was lost, Montmorency marked a turning point. Wolfe, though frustrated and ill, began to consider bolder and riskier plans. The officers, myself included, saw clearly that only by forcing Montcalm into the open, away from his defenses, could Quebec be won. The sting of Montmorency remained with us, but it sharpened our thinking and set the stage for the gamble that would soon follow on the Plains of Abraham.

Civilian Struggle for Survival – Told by Marie-Anne Lemaire

As the siege dragged on, our pantries grew bare. Grain had long since been taken for the soldiers, and what little bread we made was stretched with weeds and scraps. Families traded whatever they owned for food—clothes, tools, even heirlooms passed down for generations. Hunger hollowed our cheeks and thinned our children. Each day, mothers searched for something to boil, and each night, we went to bed with stomachs aching.

The Spread of Sickness

Hunger soon invited disease. With so many crowded into cellars and small rooms, fevers spread quickly. The weak suffered most—children, the elderly, and those already worn down by labor. I remember neighbors coughing until their breath failed, and children too weak to rise from their mats. There was little medicine to be found, and the priests who visited the sick could offer only comfort and prayers. Death became part of daily life, and bells tolled more often than laughter.

The Help of the Church

It was the parish that gave us what strength we had left. Priests and nuns gathered what little food they could and shared it among the poorest. They organized lines for soup and bread, making sure no family was entirely forgotten. Their faith steadied us, reminding us that charity was stronger than despair. When the bombs shook the walls, the church still stood as a place to gather, to pray, and to find courage in one another.

Enduring Together

Though famine and disease pressed hard upon us, the people of Quebec leaned on each other. Neighbors divided what little they had, children fetched water for the sick, and women worked together to keep fires burning. We were not soldiers, yet we fought in our own way—against hunger, against sickness, against fear. Survival was not only in what we ate but in how we refused to let the siege take away our spirit.

The Cost of Survival

Still, survival came at a terrible price. Families lost children, parents, and friends. The city, once proud and lively, grew silent with grief. When I think back on those days, I see more than the cannons and the battles—I see the faces of those who endured hunger, who prayed in sickness, and who held on through sheer will. We were civilians, caught in a war we did not choose, yet our struggle for survival was as fierce as any battle fought on the plains.

Wolfe’s Bold Decision (Sept. 1759) – Told by James Murray

By September of 1759, our campaign seemed to have reached its limit. The assaults at Beauport and Montmorency had cost us dearly and gained nothing. Wolfe himself was worn by illness and disappointment, his body weak but his spirit still restless. Morale was faltering, and the men grew weary of endless bombardment and fruitless maneuvers. Something drastic was needed, for time and supplies were slipping away.

The Plan Revealed

It was then that Wolfe revealed his boldest idea yet. Rather than hurl ourselves again against Montcalm’s fortified positions, he proposed to scale the cliffs at Anse-au-Foulon, a narrow path guarded only lightly by the French. If we could gain the heights before dawn, we could form ranks on the Plains of Abraham, forcing Montcalm to meet us in open battle. It was a gamble, for the path was steep, the risk of discovery high, and failure would mean disaster.

The Element of Surprise

The genius of Wolfe’s plan lay in its daring simplicity. The French believed the cliffs to be impassable for a full army, and so their watch was lax. Our fleet would feign attacks elsewhere, drawing Montcalm’s attention, while chosen regiments silently rowed upriver to the landing site. Every detail depended on silence, discipline, and speed. One musket fired too soon, one alarm raised, and the attempt would collapse.

My Thoughts as a Commander

As I listened to Wolfe, I weighed the risks. Many thought the plan near madness, yet I could see its brilliance. To continue as we had was to lose by inches. Only a stroke of daring could break the deadlock. I resolved to stand with Wolfe, to lend my strength to his vision, for better to try and fail than to wither away in stagnation.

The March Toward Destiny

In the early hours of September 13, we boarded boats and drifted silently down the St. Lawrence. The oars dipped softly in the water, and the cliffs loomed darker with each passing moment. My heart pounded, not from fear alone but from the knowledge that history balanced on this fragile plan. Wolfe’s bold decision was no mere tactic—it was the turning of the war. If we succeeded, Quebec would fall. If we failed, it might cost Britain the campaign.

The Battle of the Plains of Abraham (Sept. 1759) – Told by Guyasuta

When dawn broke on September 13, we learned that the British had done what few believed possible. Under cover of night, they had climbed the cliffs at Anse-au-Foulon and formed ranks on the high ground outside Quebec. Their red lines stretched across the Plains of Abraham, steady and waiting. For us who had watched them fail so often before, it was a shock to see them standing there, ready to fight on ground of their own choosing.

Montcalm’s Swift Response

Montcalm did not hesitate. He gathered his men—regulars, militia, and Native allies—and marched out to face the enemy. There was little time to prepare, and the French lines formed in haste. Some of us urged caution, warning that the British were fresh and well-positioned, but Montcalm was determined to strike before they could entrench. His courage was unquestionable, though his choice was hurried.

The Clash of Armies

The battle itself was swift and terrible. The French advanced across open ground, their lines uneven, while the British waited calmly. When the order came, the redcoats fired in disciplined volleys, cutting swathes through the French ranks. Smoke filled the air, mingling with cries of pain and the thunder of muskets. Our warriors fought as we knew best, from the flanks and the cover of the land, but the weight of British fire was overwhelming. In minutes, the French line began to crumble.

The Fall of Montcalm

In the chaos, word spread that Montcalm himself had been struck. I saw the confusion ripple through the French ranks as their leader fell from his horse, mortally wounded. To lose a commander in the midst of battle is to lose more than a man—it is to lose direction, confidence, and hope. The French wavered, then broke, fleeing back toward the safety of the walls. The British pressed forward, claiming the field.

The Shock of Defeat

For us, it was a moment of bitter realization. The fall of Montcalm was not only the fall of a general but the fall of French power in Canada. The battle had lasted less than an hour, yet its consequences would echo for generations. We who had fought beside the French knew then that their strength was broken, and that the British would soon rule the St. Lawrence. The Plains of Abraham were soaked with blood, but it was the blood of empires, and we stood as witnesses to a world forever changed.

Quebec under British Occupation – Told by Marie-Anne Lemaire

When the guns fell silent after the battle on the plains, Quebec was no longer ours. The British marched through the gates, their red coats a constant reminder that our city had fallen. We were weary from hunger and grief, and though the fighting was over, the struggle for survival had only begun. Soldiers patrolled the streets, and the fleur-de-lis no longer flew above the ramparts. It felt as though a piece of our soul had been torn away.

The Winter Closes In

The winter that followed was the hardest I have ever known. Supplies were nearly gone by the time the snow began to fall. The British had their own men to feed and shared little with us. Many families lived on scraps, boiling leather or stretching thin broth to quiet empty stomachs. Firewood, too, was scarce, and the cold seeped into every corner of our homes. Hunger and frost became enemies as dangerous as any army.

Sickness Among Us

Disease spread quickly in those crowded, frozen months. Fevers and coughs claimed the weak and the old, and children wasted away before their parents’ eyes. Our priests and nuns tended the sick with courage, but there was little medicine to be found. Funerals became so frequent that grief no longer came in waves but in a steady tide. Every family lost someone, and the city grew quieter with each passing week.

Living with the Occupiers

The presence of the British was a constant weight. Some soldiers treated us with decency, offering bread when they could spare it, but others were harsh, suspicious, and quick to anger. We were not free, and every action reminded us that we were now subjects of a different king. Still, we did what we had always done—endured, prayed, and cared for one another as best we could.

The Hope That Remained

Even in that bitter winter, whispers of hope lingered. Some said the French would return in the spring with reinforcements, that Quebec would rise again. We clung to such talk as to a lifeline, though deep inside many of us feared the truth—that our fate had already been sealed. Quebec under British occupation was a season of suffering, yet it was also proof of our resilience. Though our city had fallen, our spirit remained unbroken, carried forward in faith, family, and the dream of better days.

The Last French Attempt (Battle of Sainte-Foy, 1760) – Told by James Murray

In the spring of 1760, we learned that the French were not yet ready to yield Canada. Under the command of the Chevalier de Lévis, their army advanced once more toward Quebec. They had rebuilt their strength through the winter, gathering men from across the colony, and now sought to reclaim the city lost the year before. For us, weary from hunger and sickness, the news brought both dread and determination.

Preparing the Defense

I commanded the garrison at Quebec, numbering only a few thousand men. Our ranks were thinned by disease and the harsh winter, yet there was no time for hesitation. We marched out from the safety of the city walls to meet Lévis on the field near Sainte-Foy. It was a decision born of necessity, for to wait behind the walls was to invite starvation or bombardment without hope of relief. We would meet them in open battle, though they outnumbered us.

The Clash at Sainte-Foy

On April 28, the battle was joined. At first, our lines held firm, delivering steady volleys against the advancing French. But their numbers pressed harder, their artillery struck with precision, and their militia and Native allies fought with ferocity. The ground grew slick with mud and blood as the fighting raged for hours. I rode among the men, urging them to stand fast, but the weight of the enemy bore down upon us.

The Retreat to Quebec

At last, the French broke through, and I was forced to order a retreat. Our men fell back to the city, battered and bloodied, leaving the field in Lévis’s hands. It was a bitter moment, for the memory of Wolfe’s triumph still lingered, and now it seemed undone. Yet though we lost the battle, we did not lose the war. Behind Quebec’s walls, we braced ourselves for another siege, praying that British reinforcements would come.

The Turning of Fortune

Lévis laid siege with skill, but he lacked the fleet to blockade the river. When British ships appeared on the St. Lawrence, the balance shifted once more. The French, unable to match our naval power, withdrew, leaving Quebec in British hands for good. Sainte-Foy was their last great attempt, brave and bloody, but it could not change the course of the war. For us who endured it, the battle was a grim reminder that victories can be fleeting, but endurance and the sea power of Britain would decide the fate of Canada.

The End of New France (1760) – Told by François Bigot

By 1760, the fate of New France was no longer in doubt. Quebec had fallen the year before, and though Lévis had fought bravely at Sainte-Foy, his victory could not last without control of the river. British ships returned with supplies and reinforcements, and the French cause withered. From my desk, I watched as our once-proud colony shrank into desperation, its soldiers exhausted, its people starving, and its government broken.

The March on Montreal

The British advanced in three columns, sweeping toward Montreal from the west, the south, and the east. There was no strength left to resist them. Montcalm was gone, Lévis was outmatched, and the people were weary of sacrifice. I knew, as did every official, that the colony was encircled and doomed. Still, we kept up the appearance of order, gathering papers, rationing what little food remained, and praying for a miracle that never came.

The Surrender

In September of 1760, Montreal surrendered without a great battle. The French commanders had no choice, for to resist would have meant the ruin of the city and the slaughter of its people. The British offered terms, and New France passed into their hands. I stood in silence as our banners were lowered and the authority of the king was swept away. For decades we had fought to hold this land, and in a single moment it was lost.

The Collapse of Rule

With the surrender came the collapse of French colonial rule. The officials dispersed, the soldiers laid down their arms, and the merchants looked to new masters. The people—farmers, tradesmen, mothers, and children—remained, but their loyalties were forced to shift. For me, it was the end of power and influence. Accusations of corruption followed me back to France, and I became the convenient scapegoat for an empire’s defeat.

A Bitter Legacy

I do not deny that mistakes were made, but the truth is that New France was starved long before the British struck their final blow. Too few men, too few ships, and too little support from across the sea condemned us. I carried the weight of those failings, though they belonged to the crown as much as to me. The end of New France was not only the fall of a colony, but the fall of a dream—that France might endure on the St. Lawrence. All that remained was silence, and the memory of what we could not keep.