Where the ocean empties into the great river, there are gulls and shorebirds. In the few landings he has been permitted, he has seen waders. There are swallows over the water at dusk. Nothing unusual.

But everything has changed. Gibson looks across to Quebec, to the smoke that hangs in the space above the city buildings. He dislikes being a witness to this needless destruction, but tonight even this has been made better by the fact that he went ashore several days ago with a landing party and saw a bird that was believed not to exist in this place.

A woodcock.

It was in the grasses on the beach at the base of the cliffs, instantly recognizable, with its brown, dappled body and long, thin bill. He has seen his fill of woodcocks in England. They are not an especially attractive bird. But interesting, perhaps, because they have eyes on the sides of their heads, like horses, and like horses they can see all around them.

But the woodcock did not see James Gibson. He spotted it in the grass, and he stood motionless, watched it strut about on the sand, going about its evening business, oblivious to Gibson’s excitement.

Unfortunately, it was frightened off by some of the men before he could capture it. But no mind. He knows that it exists. He will try and come ashore to look for it again.

When James Gibson volunteered to join the Royal Navy, to journey across the ocean to this place, his parishioners were convinced that he would make his name in battle, that he would return a better man for having been in the midst of so important and glorious a victory.

But Gibson does not anymore believe this to be true. He above knows now that what will make his name has three long toes, a sturdy body, and a short, raspy song that sounds almost exactly like a frog’s.

THE SIEGE

Those who can have left the city, have fled to the surrounding countryside. For those who must stay, life is lived solely in reaction to the bombardment.

All the major edifices — churches, schools, hospitals — are being hit by the shells or burned by the firebomb “carcass” missiles. Homes have been reduced to rubble. Flames destroy the frame dwellings, and after the fire plays itself out it is decreed that what burns in wood will henceforth be rebuilt in stone.

Everyone is on the move. The nursing sisters of the Hôpital Général have set up a mobile aid station to treat the wounded civilians. Father Récher has moved from his rectory beside Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, to the Quebec Seminary, to a temporary chapel inside a house just beyond the city walls. Each of these places has been bombed, and now he conducts services from the hospital chapel. Since no building can be relied upon to survive, he has become his own church.

The French control the heights of the Beauport shore, but beyond their encampments Wolfe’s men land and lay waste to the countryside, burning houses and crops for miles on both sides of the river. Some of the unlucky residents of Quebec who have sought shelter outside the city find themselves again under fiery attack from the British.

Food for the soldiers on the battlements is meant to be transported through the countryside by horse and cart along the Chemin du Roy. Because most of the available men are serving in the militia, the supply carts are driven by women, older men, and children. Where fear or rain renders the paths impassible, food for the city is floated downriver at night on bateaux, at great risk.

Thus, food is scarce. Sometimes the soldiers are down to only a few days’ worth of rations. Everyone is fixated on when they will eat next.

So when Wolfe’s men row their landing craft through the dark waters along the Quebec promontory, it is easy for them to bluff their way past the French guard ships. Wolfe’s soldiers simply pretend that they are part of the provision convoy, that they are coming ashore with food supplies. One of the soldiers even speaks in French, and so they are not truly challenged, and so they are allowed to pass safely by.

THE CLIMB

We are fighting for England, but few of us are actually from England. Less than a quarter, I’d say. The greatest share are Americans, but there are also some Irish and Scottish soldiers, even a few Swiss and German. I myself am a Highlander and fought against Cumberland and Wolfe at Culloden. A man who defeated our Bonnie Prince Charlie, who destroyed our homes, has now recruited the 78th Highlanders to kill for him in this war.

It does not bear thinking about for any length of time, and I am glad that we are now on the move, that there is a plan.

We are to land where the enemy least expects us, at the Anse au Foulon, about a mile from Quebec. To do this, we must climb the steep cliffs that rise from the river and that are, at four in the morning, great and forbidding walls of darkness.