Who Is This?

Who is this historical figure?

 From the very first breath, fate marked my path. Born frail in Westerham's vicarage, 1727, the son of a soldier, war hummed in my cradle song. Though my body may have been slight, an iron will simmered within, yearning for the clash of steel.

Thirteen years I spent in Spiers, its gables echoing with dreams of battlegrounds. Then, London beckoned, and with it, the King's colors. At just seventeen, a captain's commission warmed my pockets, the weight of responsibility replacing youthful play.

Europe became my classroom, the War of the Austrian Succession my harsh tutor. Dettingen and Fontenoy saw my baptism by fire, the sting of smoke and the roar of cannons etching themselves onto my soul. Scotland, too, felt the tread of my boots, where Jacobite rebellion met its end at Falkirk and Culloden.

Peace, when it arrived in 1748, felt like a prison. Garrison duty in the Scottish Highlands gnawed at my ambition. Yet, even amidst drudgery, I devoured knowledge, languages and mathematics filling the gaps in my war-forged education.

Then, the Seven Years' War erupted, shattering the false peace. With it came my chance. Louisbourg, a French fortress in Nova Scotia, fell before my brigade's fury. The taste of victory was intoxicating, but ambition craved more.

Quebec, that crown jewel of New France, became my obsession. Though many deemed it madness, I saw the key to unlocking victory there. Under the cloak of night, on September 12th, 1759, my men scaled the impossible cliffs, audacity our weapon. The Plains of Abraham became our battleground, disciplined volleys tearing through the enemy ranks.

Victory kissed my lips, but at a cruel price. Two musket balls found their mark, one searing my stomach, the other piercing my chest. As I lay dying, the news of the French surrender reached my ears. "Now, God be praised, I will die in peace," I whispered, the weight of war lifting from my shoulders.

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