4th Regiment of Foot Grenadiers with their Officer. (Morier, c1750) 

  PACKED WITH GRENADIERS, THE BOATS NEARED THE BEACH. Chomping at the bit, Britain’s elite troops hit the shore and dashed forward towards the French entrenchments. Leading the Royal American Grenadiers was Captain David Ochterlony.

The Scottish-born Captain struggled to carry his flintlock fusil due to a wound he received the previous day in a private duel. Taking a musket ball in the chest, Ochterlony dropped his musket but the hardy young Captain still struggled forward. But the loss of blood slowly brought him to a halt just short of the French positions. Near him, his friend Lieutenant Henry Peyton was shot in the leg and tumbled to the ground.

The undisciplined charge proved foolish. Under heavy fire, the Grenadiers broke and retreated. Offers from their men to help were refused by Ochterlony and Peyton. Exhausted, Ochterlony took a seat near his fallen friend. Spying two native warriors with a French regular soldier approaching, both wounded officers expected no mercy. Stories of the ruthlessness and cruelty of the indigenous fighters plagued the minds of the British.

Attempting to deter their outright murder, Ochterlony, in perfect French, cautioned the regular soldier that they were protected by honour as prisoners of war. Somewhat cowed by this, the warriors began to plunder the Royal Americans. Peyton’s silver-laced hat and the Captain’s watch and money were taken.

Suddenly one warrior swung the butt of his musket at Ochterlony’s head. The Captain shifted but was stuck in the shoulder. A shot rang out. The other native had fired at Ochterlony, hitting him in the chest. The Captain cried out “O Peyton! The villain has shot me.”

However, Ochterlony proved hard to kill.  One native grabbed Ochterlony’s crimson shoulder sash and began to strangle him with it, while the other stabbed the Captain in the belly with a scalping knife. Four yards away, Peyton grabbed hold of his double-barrel shotgun and fired one barrel at his friend’s assailants. One warrior fell dead. The other turned towards Peyton with musket in hand.

The wounded Lieutenant quickly unleashed a round from the other barrel. Though now wounded in the chest, the native responded by shooting Peyton in the shoulder. Then the warrior charged forward with a bayonet at the seated Lieutenant. Peyton tried to parry the attack but was stabbed through the body and in the left hand.

The officers did not have their swords for the landing. But Peyton had a hunting dagger at his side. With his wounded left hand, the Royal American got hold of the native’s musket. Drawing his dagger, Peyton sunk the blade into the warrior's side. As they tumbled to the ground, the Lieutenant continued to stab his enemy until he finally went still.

Meanwhile the French regular had rescued Ochterlony and was attending to him fifty yards away at the base of the French breastworks. Not trusting the French soldier, Peyton shouted to his friend: “Captain Ochterlony, I am glad to see you have at last got under protection. Beware of that villain, who is more barbarous than the savages. God bless you, my dear Captain. I see a party of Indians coming this way, and expect to be murdered immediately.”

With his body flooded with adrenaline, Peyton grabbed his shotgun, pulled himself to his feet, and ran. To the horror of the British watching,the French mercilessly fired from their entrenchments at the hobbling Lieutenant fleeing towards the shore.* Collapsing into a hollow of land, Peyton loaded his shotgun with rounds from his belly box and prepared to make his last stand.

Catching a glimpse of Captain Macdonald of the Fraser Highlanders and some men to his far right, Peyton desperately waved for help. Three Highlanders rushed forward to his aid under “a terrible fire.” One highlander tossed the wounded lieutenant unto his shoulder, and they retreated towards the low-tide delta below Montmorency Falls. There, Peyton and the Fraser Highlanders withdrew across to the Eastern shore.

In his 20s, the hardy Ochterlony would survive two days in French hands. The enemy surgeons thought he could have survived the two gun shot wounds to his chest but the knife stab to his belly had done him in. Peyton survived the ordeal and returned to Great Britain to tell his tale.

*French Officers would later claim it was the Canadiens and natives who fired at Peyton, whom they had no control over.

Author's Note

The attack on Beauport was a disaster. The two Royal American Grenadier companies (from two battalions serving under Wolfe) suffered greatly.  It appears that close to all the officers (seven in total) were wounded and the men suffered more than a 50% casualty rate (10 killed, 83 wounded and 5 missing).

Ochterony and Peyton's story was immortalized (with artistic licence) in poetic verse. In War: an heroic Poem the author George Cockings dedicates several pages to the event. Below are some of the verses:

"Whilst Peyton, 'mongst the dead, and wounded lay.
Not far: (descending to the shades of night:)
Lay Ochterlong, in a dismal plight:
Their two great Hearts, by martial glow were fir'd;
And both their Souls, sweet friendship's flame inspir'd:
Of Characters unblam'd; and free from stains:
Link'd firm as Fate, in amicable chains.
The Grenadiers, wou'd fain their help bestow;
And bear them (wounded) from the scene of woe:
No, gen'rous Friends: the Caledonian said;
Bear that brave Man, (in safety) from the dead;
Pointing to Peyton, with his fractur'd bone:
Here let me lie, and bleed to death alone.
Peyton refus'd, (with generous disdain);
To leave his friend upon the hostile plain:
Fierce as the Dragon, guards th'hesperian Fruit,
Lay bleeding, (warm'd) to meet the dread dispute.

Here seems for death, an emulating strife,
Peyton, some minutes, guards departing life;
And Ochterlony, with his dying breath,
Begs Peyton's rescuse, form the field of death.

As there they lay, among the num'rous slain,
Two scalping murderers, (with cruel mein),
Join'd by a Gaul, towards the Warriors drew;
And acted like a plund'ring highway crew;
Now Ochterlong rose, form off the ground:
(Tho' pain'd and bleeding, form a mortal wound!)
Within his reach, no friendly weapon saw,
Wherewith to deal,the Caledonian Blow;
Else, doubtless, all, his mighty Blows had felt,
And fall'n beneath the Strokes, his Rage had dealt:
As dying Lions, wide Destruction spread;
Crush dogs, and men and sink together dead.
A pon'rous blow, design'd to dash his head,
An ill aim'd firelock, on this shoulder laid:
Another, full of savage, (gallic) wrath,
Pour'd in his breast, a load of leaden death:
A third effort, the butch'ring Savage made;
And thro' his belly, plung'd his scalping blade...."

Cockings later wrote a play on the Conquest of Quebec and again the story Ochterlony and Peyton played a prominent part.

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Author Robert Henderson enjoys unearthing and telling stories of military valour, heritage, and sacrifice from across the globe. Lest we forget.

 

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