Fortified city

>> Quebec's new defence perimeter is just another chapter in an old story

by NAOMI BLOCH

The industrious whine of cranes hauling concrete blocks echoes throughout Quebec City's Haute-Ville, the first tangible signs of the defence perimeter being erected for the Summit of the Americas. Before long, these one-metre-high solid slabs will be topped with another two metres of chain-link fence. The barricade will stretch a good four kilometres to crown the heights of the city, defended on a final two-kilometre stretch by a daunting cliff over 90 metres high. The purpose of this fortification is to protect 34 heads of state and their entourages, representing almost all the nations in the Americas, from the potentially violent actions and most certainly dissenting voices of thousands of civilians.

Protesters complain that this defensive structure is an outrage--an infringement on free speech that will only incite a siege mentality. Those who live and work in the enclosed area protest that they're being imprisoned in their own neighbourhoods. Even Quebec City's mayor admits he wishes he hadn't fought so hard for the right to host the ill-fated political gathering. But, really, why all the fuss? This is the city that practically invented the term "siege mentality." After all, the trade conflict in the New World didn't start with free trade, it started with the fur trade, and at its epicentre was this very strategically located trade post on the St. Lawrence River.

Since long before talk arose of a new defence perimeter, Vieux-Québec has been encircled by fortification walls. Quebec's long and sordid history as a fortified city is so acclaimed that it's entitled the city to UNESCO world heritage status. Over the last 350 years numerous fortification systems have been built, modified, demolished and rebuilt by both French and British engineers.

Two thousand metres of walls still surround the quarter, averaging four times the height of the new fence and, in some places, over three metres thick. The granite and limestone walls were revamped and reinforced in the mid-'70s at an exorbitant cost of $3,500 per metre. Sadly for today's taxpayers, modern-day dignitaries require more space and more comfort than can be offered by Quebec's historic fortress. The cost of the new defences are yet to be tallied, but the security force alone has a price tag of at least $22-million. Just be thankful that George W. Bush's entourage of around 1,200 groupies, who are occupying the entire 404 rooms of the Loews Le Concorde hotel, are footing their own bill.

Armed guards

From all tales told, uniforms will be dominating the Quebec festivities, with over 6,000 police from the RCMP, municipal and provincial police standing at attention, not to mention the foreign security teams. They're set to guard 9,000 leaders, trade negotiators, corporate bigwigs and bureaucrats. That 2:3 ratio is more than a smidgen higher than the security forces tallied in the early 1800s, when Quebec officials feared unquenchable citizen uprisings even more than today's authorities do.

The defence works, buildings and army grounds occupied one quarter of the city's entire area, and the garrison of around 1,500 British soldiers made up more than a quarter of the population. The deformed pentagon, better known as the Citadel, was built to be this same garrison's final stand in the event of a citizen takeover, an event that, tellingly, never occurred.

Which is not to say that the city's defenders did not have their share of skirmishes. A brief reminder of Quebec's stands against besieging enemies may or may not invoke the old adage "Remember history, lest we repeat it."

1690--Out, out damned zealots

Back in the 17th century, Count Frontenac's plan was to rekindle Quebec's dedication to the King of France by stepping up the fight against the lowly New Englanders. Frontenac, now more than 70 years old, brandished a hatchet and hollered out war cries as he waded through the wilderness to conquer New England fortresses.

But New England colonists, afire with the Puritanical belief that Quebecers were minions of the Anti-Christ and pissed off that Quebec monopolized the fur-trade route, resolved to conquer Canada and drive out the French. Leader of the assault against Quebec was a Boston man, Sir William Phipps, a former ship's carpenter with 20 brothers and five sisters who struck it rich by raising a Spanish ship laden with treasure and by marrying a wealthy widow.

He set course for the famed fortress with 2,200 soldiers and sailors on 30 vessels. The locals freaked out. They scurried to plant batteries, dig trenches and strengthen their fortifications. Women and children hid in the convent and everyone was burying silver in their gardens. At daybreak on a chilly mid-October morning, Phipps' imposing fleet arrived in the harbour. Surrender was certain.

Phipps sent an envoy bearing a white flag to demand his enemy's submission. But Frontenac had some psychological tricks up his sleeve. He sent four canoes out to meet the envoy, who was blindfolded and brought through the town to Frontenac. To convince the enemy of their menacing strength, the townspeople were ordered to bang drums, blow trumpets and jostle the sightless envoy. His blindfold was only removed once inside the luxurious reception room of Chateau St-Louis, where Frontenac was decked out in full uniform.

The messenger meekly passed along Phipps's orders to surrender. "Ma défense se fera par la bouche de mes cannons," Frontenac replied. Eight hundred militiamen and soldiers arrived from Montreal to fight. The insanely cold weather started to seem like just another ploy in Frontenac's master plan.

From their rocky promontory, the vastly outnumbered Quebec troops kicked New England butt. Phipps moved four ships in close to shore to bombard the town, but caused little damage. Meanwhile, the volley from the top of the cliff (which did not include catapulting cows or rabbits but might as well have) was an incessant irritant to their target far below. Phipps got tired of being cold and wet and was running out of provisions. Finally, his mission to defeat the Anti-Christ seemingly beyond hope, Phipps turned his ships around. The city high above held raucous celebration to mark the defeat of the New England zealots.

1759-Cliff notes

Though the cliff-faces of the fortress city are a formidable obstacle, police forces at the summit would be ill-advised to take the craggy border's security for granted. One young activist, who's taught even Tibetan monks how to scale highrises to hang protest banners, told the Mirror that "the kinds of skills that activists have developed during the last few years of direct action are amazingly creative." But will the protesters successfully follow in the footsteps of renowned Brit James Wolfe?

In the mid-1700's the people of Quebec were on the verge of famine and the French monarchy had all but abandoned its attachment to New France. While France sent over a mere 75 recruits to help General Montcalm defend Quebec, England sent over the Major General James Wolfe and a powerful fleet of 250 ships and 30,000 men.

Signal fires alerted Quebec of the arrival of besieging forces, and women flocked to the churches to pray, while old men and young boys came out armed for battle. Bridges were fortified, the intendant's palace was surrounded by palisades, and much like today, all the streets leading to the Haute-Ville were barricaded.

For three months Quebecers hid sequestered in their fortified city, sacrificing the bustling centre of the Bas-Ville to English cannonfire, battered by fireballs from the Brits' three camps along the river, and yet unconquerable in their high safe haven. But the end was nigh.

The English discovered that Quebec was expecting provisions from Trois-Rivières. So, under the cover of darkness, while some of their ships bombarded the town further east, Wolfe and some 60 men pretending to be the French provisions boat landed under the precipice at the most unlikely and precarious point. With guns slung over their backs, the troops hauled themselves up the full 90 metres, hanging on desperately to shrubs and boughs.

The first men to arrive at the top easily overcame the guard. Sixteen hundred men followed, all of them scaling the cliff, a few even bringing up small cannons. Meanwhile confusion reigned in Montcalm's quarters. He dismissed a messenger's claims that the English had reached the summit until, as dawn was breaking, he caught a glimpse of the redcoats across the plain. The Brits managed to sneak 3,500 men up the cliff before the French even noticed. Though a fiery battle close in numbers took place on the Plains of Abraham, the staunchly defended French colony fell into the hands of the Brits.

And the moral of the story may just be this. Angry protesters should take heart in the knowledge that they're not the first to battle against this well-defended stronghold. Confined citizens should recall that city dwellers in earlier ages trampled down the gateways in search of the sanctuary now being imposed. And Mayor L'Allier can stand tall and proud as the end of his municipal reign adds a new chapter in the annals of the Fortified City.