Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. It belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya and any and all other respective owners.
Please note that Canada is referred to as "New France" for historical accuracy. Things in normal text take place in the present and things in italics are memories from earlier that morning.
SEPTEMBER 13, 1759
The line of the red coats of the British troops stretches all the way across the ridge, staining the sky behind it with the colour of blood in the morning sun.
It makes the hearts of everyone in the ranks of the French pound like a war drum in their ears.
A boy was sitting on the carpet of the sitting room, the wooden soldiers his Papa gave him arranged on the floor in front of him. The ones painted with bright red for their coats, the British, or as Papa liked to call them, "les goddams" or "les salauds" or "les rosbifs", surrounded a fort constructed of the fancy pillows Papa had arranged on the chaise lounge. Inside, the ones painted with white and blue coats, the French, defended his version of Québec City with their cannons, perched on the top of the pillows, and their tiny wooden guns.
He makes loud pew-pew noises that drown out the anxious discussion in the next room.
The same boy lays, hidden, in a bramble bush. The regimented sound of boots clacking on the ground fills the air, steady and disciplined, as the French march in. The Canadiens militia and the Aboriginal warriors do not walk in time, through, so soon the militaristic marching turns to clamour. The boy's Papa thinks he can almost see England's smirk across the field.
"New France!" Papa called from the other room. "Please be quieter. Louis-Joseph and I have something very important to talk about."
"Sorry, Papa," the boy – New France, it appeared – replied softly, and resumed his game of war with his little wooden pieces.
There hasn't been an order to advance, so the atmosphere is heavy with foreboding and the tension is so thick one could cut it with a knife. There's a sort of silence that settles like a film of dust on top of all of the whispered prayers and the rustling of leaves in a bitter Québec wind. The entirety of the troops on either side seem to be holding their breaths, waiting for General Montcalm. The British army stretches along the entirety of the ridge, poised and almost smug. New France wonders how they seem to be able to keep their chins up in the face of such danger.
New France made one of the blue-and-white toys, the only one accessorised with a little felt hat, into General Montcalm. He moved the piece across the pillow fort, pretending he climbed the walls so he could address his troops. He stood behind one of the French cannons, his back towards the British lines, which had yet to be broken.
"Attack!" New France whispered harshly in General Montcalm's accent, addressing the rest of the French pieces. "For New France! For the King!"
"Charge!" General Montcalm booms, jabbing his sword at the British lines. His black stallion whinnies and bucks a little, making his white coat float and ripple, and he looks every bit the regal hero New France hails him as. "For King and Country!"
The words are like the first gunshot, worse than the first gunshot; they initiate the killing.
New France shook each of the French pieces, putting words of agreement in each of their mouths. He pretended that the entirety of the great French army was cheering in the square. They sounded strong in his mind, like one voice, united against the British. He imagined Mister Tremblay, the blacksmith, and Pierre Bouchard, the baker's son from down the street, and Mister Thibault, the young habitant whose farm was destroyed, applauding with them. He imagined everyone he knew smiling confidently, their eyes ablaze with the conviction and determination he believed one felt in war.
With General Montcalm's words, the entirety of the French forces break into cries, and shouting breaks the silence, much like rain breaks humidity or Papa's vase broke when New France accidentally knocked it over. The sound is chaotic and rough, and New France has to clap his hands over his ears – it's just disorganised screaming. And as they begin to advance, the knot of fear in New France's stomach tightens. The militiamen and Aboriginal warriors hidden around him in the trees load their muskets. Some of them set their jaw, looks of determination on their faces, as New France imagined they would, but others – a larger portion – are trembling, fumbling with their guns with faces contorted in terror and distress.
The terror New France feels only worsens as he thinks about Mister Tremblay and Pierre Bouchard and Mister Thibault wearing identical expressions.
New France gathered some of his little French soldiers in each fist and lifted them over the ornate gold-and-white pillows, amassing a pile in front of the British on the edge of the carpet. Then he focussed on organising the three lines of infantrymen for either side, the way Papa taught him to arrange his troops. He stuck his tongue out in concentration, ignoring the shouts floating in from the adjacent room – something about waiting for reinforcements or attacking. New France subconsciously swung to the side of attack, if only for the thrill of it.
The British are organised in two lines, not three, and New France doesn't understand why. Aren't the three lines essential for warfare? That's what Papa said. There are always three lines. And yet, the Brits are organised in two.
They hold firm as the French charge, crashing through the field, and New France thinks they match Papa's description perfectly: uncaring, cynical, unsympathetic. He hopes desperately that Papa and General Montcalm will win, because he's well aware that if they don't, there's that much of a bigger chance that he'll have to live with England. The barley, turning a golden colour so close to the harvest, brushes the soldiers' thighs as they trample over it in haste. It roils like the ocean in the wind.
Once his toy soldiers were arranged, New France began his make-believe battle. The French fired first. One with blond hair that he named François after Papa jeered at its enemy. New France flicked the first British soldier down, making what he thought were the sounds one makes when they die and moving the piece back and forth slightly so it appeared to tremble. He let it fall limp with an exaggerated "blegh".
The French draw closer to the British, and New France spots Jean-Luc, the fourteen-year-old boy who he plays with sometimes, in the ranks of the militia. He suddenly feels sick, even though he hasn't eaten very much since the British siege on Québec began and supplies were cut. He's a child. Jean-Luc is a child. And he's fighting in this war.
They advance a little bit farther, while terror and disgust twist New France's stomach. He watches them from his place of relative safety in the bushes, repeating prayers under his breath. Part of him wants to jump out and join the ranks of the soldiers, but he knows that Papa was already reluctant to bring him, so he doesn't. Or, perhaps, he doesn't because the prospect of entering the battle scares him.
The first shot is fired by the one of the Canadiens militia, and then suddenly everyone's shooting, harsh cracks like thunder but infinitely worse. New France wants this to be good, shooting first, but they're too far away, they're too far away, they're too far away.
Unlike in his game, none of the British fall.
New France knocked down more and more of the red pieces, and they fell one by one with no struggle, like pawns on a chessboard. For a sense of realism, he flicked over one or two of the blue pieces, too, but they received much more heroic deaths, ones which spurred the rest of the wooden army on. New France enjoyed writing this play in which the toys were the actors and he was the director.
Nothing is happening.
There's a barrage of musket balls directed at the British army, but they all catch the ground in front of their lines, blowing geysers of dirt into the air. The militia and the warriors seem uncertain, reloading and firing out of time with the French regulars, and the din of the battlefield fills the air, far more disorganised than it should be – than New France imagined it should be.
And then the first Redcoat falls to his knees, clutching his chest. The sounds he makes aren't loud enough to break through the quagmire of hooves and gunshots and marching, but New France can see it. He can see the pain that contorts the man's face, the blood that blooms on his white tunic, staining it so that it matches the colour of his coat. And with that, more and more of the British bow to the mercy of French guns, and one death turns into two, and two into three, and three into five. And still, the Brits don't shoot; they don't advance.
New France wants to be proud, wants to say that he's glad that this battle is going in their favour, but it all feels wrong. It feels real.
New France was on a rampage against the British soldiers on the floor. He smashed them down, toppling all of them with flicks of his wrist and swings of his arm, muttering things like "serves you right". They made hollow clattering sounds as they hit the hardwood, and the dull sound echoed across the sitting room. The fallen pieces stared up at New France with frozen faces and empty eyes.
Before, New France could pretend that the war didn't exist, could live in relative ignorance and safety. When it was in Louisburg, when it was in the forts, even when it was outside the walls of Québec City, New France could ignore the pangs of hunger in his belly and live on. But now, it's impossible, because battle is glaring him in the face.
When French army comes to be about twenty-one yards away from the British, and they shoot. The front line releases a volley of musket balls upon the French and the Canadiens, and they drop like flies. Their collective cries of agony are loud enough to drown out the gunshots, and they fall in waves. A few fire back in vain attempt to harm the Redcoats in some way, but it's pointless. From where he lies, hidden in the copse of trees that surrounds the field, New France can see Papa's eyes, wild, burning with rage and focused on England. He's reloading his gun, standing firm in the middle of the field which will soon be sown with blood, and in the distance, New France is sure he can see England, grinning manically at the carnage.
The game continued, climaxing as New France began to kick over the pieces and the yelling in the other room gave way to quick, panicked words. He smiled in satisfaction at the mess of red and blue pieces scattered across the floor, at his painting of his childish fascination with death.
The British fire again, the second line, so unified that it sounds like God unleashing His wrath upon Earth. Their muskets smoke, and the smell of gunpowder and fire that hangs heavy in the air becomes stifling. The French are dropping their guns and running. There's a shrill screech of "retreat", and then the men who are hidden with New France in the trees are shooting the Brits to cover the main force.
New France covers his ears with his palms, eyes wide in horror and desperation. Silent tears are slipping down his cheeks, and he's trembling.
There are too many bodies on the ground, partially hidden by the barley, but no one pays them any mind. They're stepped over, ignored, as the British pursue, cheering hoarsely and shouting insults like New France imagined he and Papa would.
The day is won for the little blue-and-white soldiers on the sitting room floor.
The day is won for the soldiers draped in red across the field.
They don't follow too far, for the men hidden in the trees make it to risky, but they must leave, too, eventually. Both sides tend to their wounded and count their dead. And for the first time, New France must consider what will happen if they win – if he has to live with England, if he's torn away from Papa. Everything Papa has ever said about the British has been negative, and New France knows them only as the heartless killers he makes them out to be, only as "les goddams" or "les salauds" or "les rosbifs".
The notion makes New France's heart pound like a war drum in his ears.
The heavy door to the adjacent room swung open, and Papa walked out, looking anxious. General Montcalm followed him, wearing an equally nervous expression. They exchanged a few rushed words, and then General Montcalm hurried out. Papa glanced over at New France, standing in the centre of a mess of toy soldiers, most of them fallen but a few still standing starkly, like pillars in a wasteland. Papa's eyes flashed with a sort of solemn knowledge. He approached and knelt to New France's height so they could look each other in the eyes.
"Mathieu," Papa began gently. "The British landed at L'Anse-au-Foulon, and Louis-Joseph and I have decided to meet them," he placed a hand on New France's shoulder, his expression taut. "Do you want to come with us?"
New France put on a brave smile.
"Of course, Papa! I've already prepared," he said innocently, gesturing to the corpses of toy soldiers strewn about the floor.
Papa's eyebrows furrowed and he searched New France's eyes for a heartbeat before pulling him against his chest. He planted a kiss on the top of his head and held New France in a silence which could have been tense or loving, depending on how one chose to look at it.
After a moment, Papa murmured, "I'm sorry."
"Why?"
Papa didn't answer then, but New France understands now.
Battle changes a person. Battle changes a country.
HAPPY 150TH BIRTHDAY, CANADA! I can't believe that I'm alive for such a milestone in my country's lifetime! A super happy Canada Day to any Canadians reading this!
I asked my friends what they thought the most important part of Canadian history is out of the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, Vimy Ridge, or Confederation in 1867. They chose the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, which was a key battle in the Seven Year's War (French and Indian War in America). It took place on a farmer's field outside of Québec City, and was fought between the French and the British. It lasted less than twenty minutes, but it was a turning point in the Seven Year's War. What was curious about it was General James Wolfe's idea to scale the sharp cliffs of L'Anse-au-Foulon, and then assemble the British troops in two lines instead of three so that they could stretch across the entire ridge. It was his last ditch effort to lure General Montcalm and the French out of Québec City, and it worked; General Montcalm met the British on the battlefield with a force almost equal in size to the British, but mostly comprised of inexperienced Canadiens (Québecois) militia and Aboriginal warriors. The British won. Both General Wolfe and General Montcalm both died following the battle.
After the battle, the war generally began to go in Britain's favour, particularly in North America, where they had been suffering defeats to the French. It led to the Canada - and indirectly, the world - we know today. If the French had won, Canada would likely have a predominantly Francophone population, and much of its history would be rewritten. As well, if there had been a French victory, the United States of America may never have fought for their independence from Britain, which would lead to drastic differences in our world today.
I know I've been gone for a while (sorry), and this didn't really turn out how I would have liked it too, but that's alright. I had to rewrite this like, three times, and this is the best I could do. Writing battles is hard.
Thanks so much for reading, until next time! And again, super happy 150th, Canada! I'm so thankful to have been born in such a wonderful country!