Two canoes slid into sight, gliding over the Richelieu’s brown surface. They were paddled by Indians, and in each sat six complacent soldiers in fine blue uniforms with white facings, white belts crossed over their chests, white vests, white breeches. Their muskets slanted outward, three to a side, all shipshape and military looking.

As the canoes slipped along between the crowds at the water’s edge, there arose a ragged, welcoming cheer that spread and solidified until the soldiers in blue and white seemed to float on a river of cheering. Behind the first two canoes came another two; then two more, each with six soldiers in it; then a lumbering great bateau, packed solidly with soldiers in blue and white. Bayoneted muskets stood upright between their knees; and to my eager eyes those glittering rows of bayonets were a silver crop that soon would ripen into golden victory.

The ringleader of the ragged York troopers, balanced on a plank high in air, unenthusiastically identified the newcomers for us. “Sullivan’s brigade!” he said, and spat copiously through the vessel’s ribs.

A second bateau, filled with men in blue and white, followed the first, and close behind the second was a third. The men in them laughed and stamped their feet, and in time to the stamping they shouted, “QueBEC! QueBEC! QueBEC-BEC-BEC!” From the next bateau came the rattle of drums; and blue-and-white-clad fifers shrilled into Yankee Doodle.

Above me one of the York troopers yelled horribly and waved his torn hat. Unexpectedly the ringleader capered on his plank, and in a cracked voice bellowed, “Sullivan! Sullivan!” In a moment all six were shouting, hurrooing, and dropping one by one from their perches.

The ringleader glared at me furiously and bawled, “By God, we’ll show ’em!” He turned and ran like a madman toward the river; and Tom Bickford and I ran after him.

Bateau after bateau came downstream between banks so packed with people that the whole of Canada seemed to have crowded into St. John’s; and the unending welcoming clamor was sweeter, even, than the rolling of the drums. These Canadian French folk, clapping their hands and leaping for joy, were the same ones who had despised and spurned us when we were weak and hungry; so it was clear that they would join us fast enough if they thought we could whip the English.