"General Washington had always had a keen tactical mind - at least, that's what we thought until we disembarked from those fifth rates on the shoreline below Quebec. 'Lay siege to the Frenchy!' was our cry, and a damnable good one at that. Our enthusiasm waned, however, as old George W told the men that we'd be prosecuting our siege from the swamps at the river's edge."
"A whole year we sat there, in that foul and foetid mire, slapping ineffectually at the mosquitos as they drained us of our life's blood. Eventually, the foeman showed signs of sallying forth. 'Let us meet them on the dry ground over yonder, Sir!' begged Sir W's second in command. 'At least let us get out of this hell-spawned slough before we fight!' All his entreaties were in vain."
"The French troops advanced down the slope, and unlimbered their 24 pounders on a small knoll. I don't mind admitting that I thought we were done for. All they had to do was leave us in the swamp until the boots rotted from our feet, peppering us with cannon fire all the while. It wasn't as if we were going anywhere - walking at all in that sucking bog was damn near impossible."
"And then, a miracle! The French marched straight into the peaty morass in front of us. For an hour, both sides floundered around in the mud and ooze. Eventually, our superior firepower showed through and the morale of their irregulars crumbled. After that, it was a rout. A very slow, and very sticky rout."
Yeah, anyway, what's all that about? Why would I lay siege in a bog when there was high ground not a quarter of a mile away? Surely after a year of the siege I'd have realised that there were better places to sit?
