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“Considering all the fighting, the French surrendered rather tamely,” Chisholm said, puffing at his pipe. “I had anticipated a last battle in Montreal, with the Frenchies defending the walls and us charging the breach with bloody bayonets. Thank God for small mercies.”
MacKim forced a smile. “Thank God,” he said.
When the three British armies marched into Montreal, the citizens experienced the skirl of the Highland bagpipes for the first time. When MacKim heard the pipes, he exchanged glances with MacRae and Chisholm. “The lads have arrived,” he said.
“Let’s say hello.” Chisholm pulled his bonnet further over his forehead, stamped his feet and headed in the direction of the pipes. MacRae and Ranald MacDonald followed, with MacKim jogging behind them.
“Listen!” A second skirl of pip
