Whenever General Montclair entered a room, it always caused a bit of a stir. With his powdered white wig jauntily shoved to one side, revealing his yellow-gold tresses, the women in the room would feel drawn to him. Yes, he was certainly very attractive, but there was something else about him, that “je ne sais quoi,” that strange quality that can’t be quantified or even adequately articulated, which he possessed. His charisma, his pizazz extended even to other men who generally felt a sense of camaraderie and fellowship with him. At least those who had fought on the battlefield for Queen and country felt it.
He was the kind of general who shared all the hardship and glory of war with his men. He slept in a small tent, on a thin pallet with only his aide-de-camp present. He ate the same food. Often, he would dismount and march with the infantry. He’d even beat a drum or carry a flag. It was why his men loved him so and would follow him to the very gates of Hell, if he asked it of them.