Montgomery.

Meanwhile Montgomery was racing for Carleton and Carleton
was racing for Quebec. Montgomery's advance-guard had
hurried on to Sorel, at the mouth of the Richelieu,
forty-five miles below Montreal, to mount guns that would
command the narrow channel through which the fugitive
governor would have to pass on his way to Quebec. They
had ample time to set the trap; for an incessant nor'-easter
blew up the St Lawrence day after day and held Carleton
fast in Montreal, while, only a league away, Montgomery's
main body was preparing to cross over. Escape by land
was impossible, as the Americans held Berthier, on the
north shore, and had won over the habitants, all the way
down from Montreal, on both sides of the river. At last,
on the afternoon of the 11th, the wind shifted. Immediately
a single cannon-shot was fired, a bugle sounded the _fall
in!_ and 'the whole military establishment' of Montreal
formed up in the barrack square--one hundred and thirty
officers and men, all told. Carleton, 'wrung to the soul,'
as one of his officers wrote home, came on parade 'firm,
unshaken, and serene.' The little column then marched
down to the boats through shuttered streets of timid
neutrals and scowling rebels. The few loyalists who came
to say good-bye to Carleton at the wharf might well have
thought it was the last handshake they would ever get
from a British 'Captain-General and Governor-in-chief'
as they saw him step aboard in the dreary dusk of that
November afternoon. And if he and they had known the
worst they might well have thought their fate was sealed;