CHAPTER XI.

LITTLE YORK, NIAGARA, AMHERSTBURG.

In common with most great men, Brock found distraction in trifles. For weeks prior to leaving Quebec all kinds of gayety prevailed. A visit from Governor Gore of Upper Canada, and the arrival of the fleet from Guernsey and two frigates from Portsmouth, gave a fillip to society. Races, water-parties and country picnics were the order of the day. Our hero's contribution consisted of a banquet and grand ball. He had his own troubles, however, that even the versatile Dobson could not overcome, and he roundly scolded his brother Irving for not sending him a new cocked hat.[2]

"That cocked hat," he said, "has not been received; a most distressing circumstance, as from the enormity of my head I find the utmost difficulty in getting a substitute."

His departure for York weighed upon him. In Quebec he had the most "delightful garden imaginable, with abundance of melons and other good things"—these, together with his new bastions and forts, he had to desert. Being somewhat of a philosopher, he said that since fate decreed the best portion of his life was to be wasted in inaction, and as President Jefferson, though he wanted war, was afraid to declare it, he supposed he should have to be pleased with the prospect of moving upwards.

Brock had been but a few weeks at Fort George—a "most lonesome place," as compared with Quebec, Montreal, Kingston, or even Little York, from which latter place he was cut off by forty miles of lake, or more than a hundred miles of dense forest and bridgeless streams—when he decided upon a flying trip to Detroit, where, during the French regime, the adventurous Cadillac had landed in 1701. He would inspect the western limit of the frontier now under his care and obtain at first hand a knowledge of the peninsula. "For," as he remarked to Glegg, his aide, "if I can read the signs aright, the two nations are rushing headlong into a military conflict."

Two routes were open to him, one overland, the other land and water. He chose the latter. A vast quantity of freight now reached Queenston from Kingston. Vessels of over fifty tons sailed up the river, bearing merchandise for the North-West Company. Salt pork from Ireland and flour from London, Britain being the real base of supply—the remote North-West looking to Niagara for food and clothing—the return cargoes being furs and grain. To portage these goods around Niagara Falls kept fifty or more farmers' waggons busy every day during the summer. A team of horses or oxen could haul twenty "pieces," of one hundred weight each, for a load. The entire length of the portage from Lake Ontario to Lake Erie was practically a street, full of all the bustle and activity that a scattered country population of 12,000 conferred upon it. Two churches, twenty stores, a printing house, six taverns and a scholastic academy supplied the varied wants of Niagara's 500 citizens who overfilled its one hundred dwellings.

From Lake Ontario, Newark, as it had been called, presented an inviting appearance. The brick-and-stone court-house and jail and brightly painted Indian council-house and cottages rose in strong contrast against the green forest. On the river bank was Navy Hall, a log retreat for seamen, and on Mississaga (Black Snake) Point a stone lighthouse flashed its red signal of hope to belated mariners. Nearer the lake shore, in isolated dignity across a mile of common, stood Fort George, a dilapidated structure with wooden palisades and bastions. Half-acre lots in the village were given gratis by the Government to anyone who would build, and eight acres outside for inclosures, besides a large "commonty" for the use of the people. A quite pretentious wharf lined the river, and from this, on any summer afternoon, a string of soldiers and idle citizens might be seen—among whom was Dobson—casting hook and troll for bass, trout, pickerel and herring, with which the river swarmed. On one occasion Brock helped to haul up a seine net in which were counted 1,008 whitefish of an average weight of two pounds, 6,000 being netted in one day.

Side-wheel ferries, driven by horse-power, plied between the river's mouth and the Queenston landing. The paddle-wheels of these were open double-spoke affairs, without any circular rim. A stage-coach also ran between Queenston and Fort Erie, the first in Upper Canada. For one dollar the passenger could travel twenty-five miles.

At Fort Erie, at the head of the Niagara River, Brock embarked in mid-August in a government schooner. He wished to familiarize himself with the upper water-ways. He made the long trip from Quebec to York, and thence to Niagara, Amherstburg, Detroit, Sandwich and return overland to Fort George, within two months—record time. Dobson accompanied his master. Brock was silent as to his impressions, but admitted he was convinced that the water route for a military expedition was the only practical one, and that Mackinaw, held by the United States, was the portal and key to the western frontier in case of invasion. He crossed overland through the "bad woods" and open plains to the Point of Pines, where batteaux and canoes awaited him. From thence he proceeded along the north shore of Lake Erie until abreast of the Miami, a confluent of the Ohio River, on the south shore, then turned northward up the Detroit River, twenty-five miles farther, reaching Amherstburg—called Malden by the Americans—250 miles from Fort Erie. Here, after consulting with Colonel St. George, he inspected the battery at Sandwich, and with little ceremony visited Detroit—the old military post of Pontchartrain—on the opposite side of the river, later notorious as an emporium for "rum, tomahawks and gunpowder." From Amherstburg, a small village with an uncompleted fort and shipyard, he sent messengers to the remote post of St. Joseph, an island, fifty-five miles from Mackinaw, below Sault Ste. Marie, and started homewards overland.

In returning, he skirted the great tributary marshes, alive with water-fowl of every description, whose gabble and flapping wings could be heard at a long distance. He camped in the vast hardwood forests that covered the western point of the peninsula that extends west from Lake Ontario to the river connecting Lake Huron with Lake Erie. He shot big bustards and wild turkeys in the bush, where wolves and deer were as thick as rabbits in a warren, and tramped the uplands, teeming with quail and prairie chicken. Continuing by Delaware and the Government road at Oxford on the Thames, and by the "Long Woods" over the Burford Plains to Brant's Ford, he reached the Grand River, and then by Ancaster and the head of the lake to Burlington, when he followed the Lake Ontario southern shore road to Niagara.

Many of the settlers whom he met were from the Eastern States. These were the original Loyalists or their descendants, patriots to the core. Other more recent arrivals—perhaps two-thirds of the whole—came from Pennsylvania, New York and New Jersey, attracted by the fertility of the soil and freedom from taxation, or to escape militia service. These latter he quickly realized were not the class to rely upon in event of war, but he gave no public sign of distrust. It was from the pick of the first-mentioned stalwarts that Brock formed his loyal Canadian militia, his gallant supporters in the war of 1812, who made a reputation at Detroit and Queenston that will never die.

He was more than ever sensible of the resources of the country. This glimpse of the west enamoured him. To his "beloved brothers"—our hero always thus addressed them—he described it as a "delightful country, far exceeding anything I have seen on this continent." The extent of the Great Lakes amazed him, as did their fish. From these deep cisterns he had seen the Indian fishermen take whitefish, the ahtikameg (deer-of-the-water), twenty pounds in weight; maskinonge— matchi-kenonje, the great pike—more than twice that size, and sturgeon that weighed two hundred pounds and over, and in such quantities that he hesitated to tell his experiences on his return.

Henry's stories of five hundred whitefish taken with a scoop net at the rapids of Sault Ste. Marie in two hours were no longer questioned. The size of the red-fleshed land-locked trout (the quail-of-the-water), of pickerel and bass, astounded him. His travels had broadened his views. The chatter of his Iroquois and Algonquin friends was now easier of interpretation. The riddles of the wilderness were more easily read. He now realized how possible it was, in this continent of unsurveyed immensity, to journey for weeks, after leaving the white man's domain hundreds of miles behind, and then reach only the rim of another kingdom of even far greater fertility. He also realized that beyond these laughing lands lay a rugged world of desolation, bounded in turn by the rasping ice-floes of the Arctic.

If Brock's mind had expanded, so had his body. He was, as he expressed it, as "hard as nails." The close of 1811 found "Master Isaac" a grand specimen of manhood. Inclined to be a little portly, he was still athletic. His face, though a trifle stern, had grown more attractive, because of the benevolent look now stamped upon it. He was still fair and florid, with a broad forehead, and eyes though somewhat small, yet full and of a grayish blue, a charming smile and splendid white teeth. Always the same kindly gentleman and always a soldier. His life at Fort George had been one of great loneliness. He read much and rapidly, and would memorize passages from the books that had left the deepest impression. History, civil and military, especially ancient authors, was his choice, and maps his weakness. Over these, with his devoted aides, he would pore late into the night, until he knew the country almost as well as his friend the Surveyor-General. For variety he feasted upon the robust beauties of Pope's "Homer," ever regretting he never had a master "to guide and encourage him in his tastes."

With Lieutenant-Governor Gore, formerly a soldier in Guernsey, our hero was on intimate terms. When the grind of duty let him, he would travel "the worst road in the country—fit only for an Indian mail-carrier—in order to mix in the society of York." He periodically returned these hospitalities by a grand ball at Niagara—always the event of the season. Brock, while fond of women's society, preferred brain to beauty. Had his old Guernsey friends been present on these occasions they would not have recognized in the soldier, resplendent in a general's uniform, now dancing a mazurka, the handsome stripling who only a few years since had waltzed his way into the hearts of all the women of St. Peter's Port.

The unrest of the Indians at Amherstburg troubled him. He had seen over eight hundred in camp there, receiving rations for a month while waiting presents of blankets, powder and shot from King George. They asked British support if they took the warpath against the Americans—the Long-knives—Gitchi-mokohmahn, their sworn enemies. Tecumseh, a Shawanese chief, had demanded from the United States the restoration of violated rights. This demand had not been complied with. The position was critical. Great tact was required to retain the friendship of the Indians, while not complying with their request.

In Lower Canada there was still discord among the French Canadians. The Governor, Sir James Craig, in a dying condition, relinquished office. In answer to Brock's application for leave, still hoping for a staff appointment in Portugal, the Governor-General implored him to remain.

"I must," he told him, "leave the country in the best state of security I can; your presence is needed here. I am sending you as a mark of my sincere regard my favourite horse, Alfred." This was a high-bred animal, and our hero's charger in the war that followed.

It was not, however, until war was regarded as unavoidable, and not until after he was promoted to be a major-general and appointed President and Administrator of Upper Canada, as successor to Governor Gore, that Isaac Brock became reconciled to life in Canada, and with set purpose assumed the duties of his high calling.

* * * * *

Our hero had passed his third milestone.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Miss Carnochan, as the Curator of the Niagara Historical Society the custodian of many relics of the war of 1812, has in her keeping this identical cocked hat. It arrived "shortly after Brock's death, and was given by his nephew to Mr. George Ball, near whose residence the 49th was stationed. The hat measures twenty-four inches inside, and was used at the funeral obsequies of 1824 and 1853, when many old soldiers requested, and were permitted, to try it on." The usage that the cocked hat then received has not improved its appearance.



CHAPTER XII.

MAJOR-GENERAL BROCK, GOVERNOR OF UPPER CANADA.

The appointment of Brock—with his exceptional military attainments—to the chief command in Upper Canada, at the point of greatest danger, was a rare piece of good fortune for the colony. Of the American military leaders, Generals Howe, Dearborn and Wadsworth were all examples of a common standard; even Sir George Prevost, the new Governor-General of Canada and Commander-in-Chief, was tuned in a minor key.

Isaac Brock was the man of the hour. His star was in the ascendant. Queen Victoria's father, the Duke of Kent, was anxious to meet the soldier whose despatches had stirred the War Office. The Duke of York was ready to give him a brigade under Wellington, while the Governor of Jamaica, the Duke of Manchester, then touring Canada, begged Brock, whom he looked upon as a "universal provider," to equip him with canoes and guides for a western pilgrimage. If Brock's promotion brought him distinction it also brought him work—Executive Councils, court-martials, reorganization of militia, reconstruction of the ruined forts on the Niagara frontier, the building of gunboats, the making of roads. Never idle. To-day he was inspecting a camp of the 49th at Three Rivers, near Montreal; next week at Fort Erie. Ever busy, ever buoyant. Whether perusing documents, scouring the muddy roads at Queenston, surveying the boundaries of the dreaded Black Swamp, or visiting the points between Fort George and Vrooman's battery on his slashing gray charger, he had a smile and cheery word for everyone. As for Dobson, his profound awe at his master's progress was only equalled by his devotion, that increased with the illness that threatened his life; while the faithful sergeant-major, now Captain FitzGibbon, in command of a company of the 49th, was reflecting great credit on his patron. But no matter what the tax on his time, Isaac never neglected the "beloved brothers."

In New York there had been financial failures. Brock predicted a dreadful crash, and had so written to his brother Irving, who with William had a bank in London. He hoped they "had withheld their confidence in public stocks." Providence ruled otherwise. While Isaac in the solitude of his quarters was writing this warning, the banking house in London, whose vessels in the Baltic Sea had been seized by Bonaparte's privateers, closed its doors. The news reached him on his birthday. He learned that a private advance made to him by William for the purchase of his commissions had been entered in the bank's books by mistake. He was a debtor to the extent of L3,000.

Brock rose to the occasion. He proved himself not only a soldier but, best of all, a just man with the highest sense of personal honour. His distress was all for his brothers. He would sell his commission, turn over his income as governor and surrender everything, if by doing so he could save the fortunes of his family. Anything that not only the law but the right might demand. This failure impaired the former good fellowship between William and Irving Brock. Isaac wrote Irving, beseeching him to repair the breach. "Hang the world," said he; "it is not worth a thought. Be generous, and find silent comfort in being so. Oh, my dear brother, forget the past and let us all unite in soothing the grief of one of the best hearts that heaven ever formed, whose wish was to place us all in affluence. Could tears restore him he would be happy."

But Isaac was not permitted to know that reconciliation followed his prayers. While William and Irving were shaking hands, but before they had even heard of the capture of Detroit, Isaac, unknown to them, was at that moment lying cold in death within the cavalier bastion at Fort George.

Little York was now Brock's headquarters. He built dockyards to shelter His Majesty's navy, which consisted of two small vessels! He planned new Parliament Buildings and an arsenal, prepared township maps showing roads and trails, fords and bridges, all of which latter were in a shocking condition. At York the timber and brushwood was so dense that travel between the garrison and town was actually by water. His mind made up that war with the United States was inevitable, he was confronted with crucial questions demanding instant solution. Chief of these was the defence of the frontier, 1,300 miles in length, which entailed repairs of the boundary forts, the raising of a reliable militia, the increase of the regular troops, the building of more gunboats, and the solving of the Indian problem.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE WAR CLOUD.

A President of the United States had breezily declared that the conquest of Canada would be "a mere matter of marching." The final expulsion of England from the American continent he regarded as a matter of course. Cabinet ministers at Washington and rabid politicians looked upon the forcible annexation of Canada as a foregone conclusion.

One Massachusetts general officer, a professional fire-eater, said he "would capture Canada by contract, raise a company of soldiers and take it in six weeks." Henry Clay, another statesman, "verily believed that the militia of Kentucky alone were competent to place Upper Canada at the feet of the Americans." Calhoun, also a "war-hawk," had said that "in four weeks from the time of the declaration of war the whole of Upper and part of Lower Canada would be in possession of the United States." All of this was only the spread-eagle bombast of amateur filibusters, as events proved, but good cause for Brock, who had been appointed janitor of Canada and been given the keys of the country, to ponder deeply.

Canada's entire population was nearly 320,000—about the same as that of Toronto to-day—that of the United States was 8,000,000! To defend her broken frontier Canada had only 1,450 British soldiers and a militia—at that moment—chiefly on paper. If the Indians in the West were to be impressed with British supremacy—for they were making a stand against 2,000 American soldiers on the banks of the Wabash, in Ohio, where eighteen years before they had been beaten by General Wayne at Miami—then Amherstburg must be greatly strengthened and the Americans deterred from attack. How was Brock to obtain troops, and how were they to be equipped? The stores at Fort York were empty, provisions costly, and no specie to be had. All the frontier posts needed heavier batteries. On Lake Erie the fleet consisted of the Queen Charlotte and the small schooner Hunter. As to the militia, he had been advised that it would not be prudent to arm more than 4,000 of the 11,000 in all Canada prepared to bear arms.

To Brock's citation of thirty pressing wants Sir George Prevost wrote him, "You must not be led into any measure bearing the character of offence, even should war be declared." Prevost had a fluid backbone, while Brock's was of finely tempered steel.

While affairs were in this precarious state His Excellency the Lieutenant-Governor, Major-General Brock, opened the Legislature at York. With what pride the news was received by the good people at St. Peter's Port can be imagined. To think that this great man, gorgeous in a purple Windsor uniform and slender court sword, with gleaming silk hose and hair aglitter with silver powder, was none other than "Master Isaac," whom the humblest Guernsey fisherman claimed as comrade, seemed past belief! To think that this important gentleman, with frilled waistcoat and cuffs of delicate lace—actually the King's Deputy—before whom, as "Your Excellency," Indian and paleface, gentle and simple, bowed low, was the small boy who used to play "uprooting the gorse" with the Guernsey fisher-lads—was beyond comprehension. Probably the one least affected by these honours was our hero himself. While it gratified his honest pride, it did not in the least cloud his vision. His speech from the throne proves this.

"It is a glorious contest in which the Empire is engaged," he said, "to secure the independence of Europe, but what can we think of the American Government, which is trying to impede her effort.... The ships of England," he continued, "had been refused shelter in United States harbours, while refuge had been extended to the ships of our inveterate enemies." He reminded the colonists that "insulting threats had been offered to the flag and hostile preparations made." He praised the militia, and, while wishing for peace, declared that "Canada must prepare for war, relying on England's support in her hour of peril." He asked the Legislature to assent to three things of vital importance—the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act, the passage of a law to regulate the privileges of aliens, and an Act providing for rewards to be paid to the captors of deserters.

It was a house divided against itself, and it turned a deaf ear to Brock's appeal. "To the great influence of American settlers over the members of the Lower House," he attributed this defeat. A court-martial revealed the fact that one of the best known militia regiments was composed almost entirely of native Americans! The United Empire Loyalists thronged to his banner.

Undaunted by the cheap prudence of Prevost, a hostile Legislature, and the difficulties that beset him, Brock took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and all but single-handed—"off his own bat," as Dobson explained it to an admiring crowd in the barrack-room—wrought like the hero that he was for the salvation of his country. He became a machine, a machine working at high pressure eighteen hours out of twenty-four. He had developed into a very demon for work.

With an empty treasury and no hope of reinforcements—every soldier England could spare was fighting in Spain—he raised flank companies of militia to be attached to the regular regiments. The Glengarry sharpshooters, four hundred strong, were enlisted in three weeks. A new schooner was placed on the stocks. He formed a car-brigade of the young volunteer farmers of York and removed incompetent officers.

Fort George, constructed of earthen ramparts, with honeycombed cedar palisades which a lighted candle could set fire to, with no tower or block-house, and mounting only nine-pound guns, he knew was incapable of resistance. It invited destruction from any battery that might be erected at Youngstown on the American side, while confronting it was Fort Niagara, built of stone, mounting over twenty heavy guns, containing a furnace for heating shot, and formidable with bastions, palisades, pickets and dry ditch. The tension at Niagara was trying. Two officers of the 41st were expelled for killing dull care by dissipation. A Canadian merchant schooner was boarded in mid-lake by an American brig, taken to Sackett's Harbour and stripped. The Americans were pouring rations and munitions of war into Detroit. If Brock's hands were shackled, he knew the art of sitting tight. He made another flying trip to Amherstburg, taking one hundred men of the 41st, in the face of Prevost's standing orders to "exercise the strictest economy." Handicapped on every side, doing his best and preparing for the worst, he wrote Prevost that his "situation was critical," but he "hoped to avert dire calamity."

The river bank between Fort George and Queenston for seven miles was patrolled night and day. A watch was placed on Mississaga lighthouse from daylight to dusk, and beacon masts, supporting iron baskets filled with birchbark and pitch, were erected on the heights to announce, in event of hostilities, the call to arms.

At this time one of Brock's most intimate friends—his chosen adviser—was Mr. Justice William Dummer Powell, later Chief Justice of Upper Canada, and former Speaker of the House. At the judge's house and at Tordarroch, the log mansion of General AEneas Shaw—another intimate, and Adjutant-General of Militia—Brock was wont to repair for a few hours' rest from official cares. It was at Tordarroch (Oak Hall), on the outskirts of York, that the great Duke of Kent had been a guest. When at Fort George our hero usually lived with Colonel Murray, of the 100th, and "charming Mrs. Murray," as he was fond of calling her, in their "pretty cottage," and if not there he was a constant visitor at the house of Captain John Powell, a son of the judge and son-in-law of General Shaw, between whose daughter, Sophia Shaw, and Isaac Brock there had developed a deep attachment. Here he whiled away spare moments with whist and cribbage, "diversions," he said, "that sharpened a man's wits." He would shoot wild pigeons and spruce partridges in the adjacent bush, or take long gallops, frequently alone, over the plains beyond the Heights of Queenston, ever on the lookout for new bridle-paths and point-to-point trails.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA DECLARES WAR.

It came at last! On June 18th, 1812, after weeks of preparation, placing an embargo on shipping, putting 100,000 militia on a war footing on the pretence of hostilities among the Indians, calling out the volunteers and raising a special public fund, Congress under President Madison declared war against Great Britain.

This did not end Brock's suspense. Not until five weeks later did he receive official notice from Prevost. Despite opposition from many states, which declared their detestation of an alliance with Bonaparte, after a stormy debate behind closed doors at Washington, Congress voted for war against England, with Canada as the point of attack. The United States placed itself on record as approving of "forcible invasion of a neighbouring peaceful country and its rights, and of taking property on which it had no shadow of claim."

The offensive "right of search" of American ships by British warships for deserters was, of course, given as the excuse for war. The United States Government contended that a nation's flag protected the cargoes of the vessels of that nation. To search for contraband or for deserters on such ships, President Madison declared, was a violation of international law. In direct violation of the United States' own interpretation of this decree, her war-frigate President blew the British gunboat Little Belt, half her own size, almost out of the water because of the refusal of her commander to allow such search.

It is interesting to remember that while the United States contended that Britain had no right to search the ships of other nations, she actually allowed her own officials, in the case of an American sailor who had become a citizen of France and an officer in the French navy, to search the foreign vessel upon which he served and arrest him as a deserter. A more flagrant violation of the principles she professed is difficult to imagine. She insisted that this officer was still a citizen of the United States, for he could not become a citizen of another country without the consent of the government of his native country. So, when it suited her purpose, and in direct defiance of her own proclamation, she did not hesitate to accept England's contention and adopt the "obnoxious doctrine"—thus practising the identical principle against which she had declared war. Truly glaring inconsistency.

While these were the chief of the alleged reasons for war, the whole world knew that the real cause was the jealousy and hatred felt for England by a certain class of United States citizens who "were bound to pick a quarrel with John Bull, excuse or no excuse." That there were many and irritating faults on the part of England cannot be denied. In the light of subsequent events it is not difficult to realize that both governments were in the wrong. The wisdom born of bitter experience and the sincere friendship of the two nations to-day, sensibly founded on mutual respect, happily renders a repetition of such regrettable scenes outside the pale of possibility.

Strange to say, England had revoked the objectionable Order-in-Council authorizing right of search of American ships for deserters by British men-of-war the very day before war was declared by the United States. There was no ocean cable in those days. Had there been, this story might never have been written. The removal, however, of this one reason for war was not—when letters duly arrived from England announcing the fact—accepted by the United States as a reason for an immediate declaration of peace. This proves that the reasons advanced by the United States for going to war were from first to last not genuine, but mere excuses. Canada was as Naboth's vineyard, and Ahab, in the person of the United States, coveted it. England hesitated to draw the sword on a people "speaking a common tongue, with institutions based upon her own," but she could not always be expected to "turn the other cheek to the smiter."

The United States called out an army of 15,000 men for purposes of attack on the Niagara frontier, and commanded General Wadsworth—of course, on paper—"to feed and cherish them." How well he executed this command remains to be seen.

What of Canada? Her yeomen forsook ploughshare and broadaxe, seized sword and musket, and rallied to the standard of Brock. In Upper Canada there was an active force of 950 regulars and marines and 550 militia. This little army had to defend the seven forts of Kingston, York, George, Erie, Chippewa, Amherstburg, and St. Joseph, not one of which was a fortress of strength, to patrol the lakes and protect a most vulnerable frontier. It was the opinion of leading military authorities that Canada could never be held against such an enemy.

Brock was at York when the news reached him. He at once sent part of the 41st to Niagara by lake, crossing himself with his brigade-major, Evans, and Macdonell and Glegg, his aides, and, as usual, in a batteau, with eleven men. At Fort George he bade adieu to some American officers, guests of the mess, and sent them across the river. He was eager to storm Fort Niagara, whose capture might have changed the entire situation, but alas! what of his instructions?

He called out more militia, though he had only a few tents and many of the men were drilling without shoes. One hundred Tuscaroras under Chief Brant answered his summons. He divided his augmented Niagara force into four divisions—at Fort Erie 400 men, at Fort Chippewa 300, at Queenston 300, at Fort George 500. Of these, 900 were militia.

The rattle of the matchlock was as familiar as cockcrow. Every man became in fact, if not in deed, a volunteer. If the musket was not strapped to the tail of the plough, it leaned against the snake-fence—loaded. The goose-step, the manual and platoon took the place of the quadrille. Every clearing became a drill-hall, every log cabin an armoury. Many of the militia were crack shots, with all the scouting instincts of the forest ranger. In the barrack-square, in scarlet, white and green, the regulars drilled and went through wondrous evolutions with clock-work precision—fighting machinery with the tenacity of the bull-dog, though lacking the craft of the woods that had taught the volunteer the value of shelter and the wisdom of dwelling on his aim.

Apart, stolid and silent, but interested spectators, lounged the dusky redmen, forever sucking at their pwoighun-ahsin (stone pipes) and making tobacco from the inner bark of red-willow wands, watching and wondering. The foot soldiers carried fire-locks, flints and cartridge boxes. These smooth-bore flint-locks had an effective range of less than 100 yards, and could be discharged only once a minute. Very different to the modern magazine rifle, which can discharge twenty-five shots in a minute and kill at 4,200 yards, while within 2,000 yards it is accurate and deadly. The mounted men were armed with sabres and ponderous pistols.

Our hero addressed the militia. The enemy, he told them, intended to lay waste the country. "Let them be taught," he said, "that Canadians would never bow their necks to a foreign yoke." As the custodian of their rights, he was trying to preserve all they held dear. He looked to them to repel the invaders.

Brock was placed in a most peculiar position, for while the passive Prevost was still instructing him—nearly three weeks after the declaration of war—"to take no offensive measures, as none would be taken by the United States Government," General Hull, with a force of 2,500 tried soldiers, was on his way from Ohio through the Michigan forests to occupy Detroit and invade Canada. Hull reached Detroit, and four days later, with his entire command, crossed the river and occupied Sandwich. But the trip was attended with serious mishap to his army, for Lieutenant Roulette, of the British sloop Hunter—a brother of the famous fur-trader—in a small batteau, with only six men, captured the United States packet Cayuga, with a detachment of five officers and thirty-three soldiers, as she was coming up the river. The Cayuga's treasure consisted not only of valuable stores and baggage, but Hull's official correspondence with the United States Secretary of War. The contents of this decided Brock, though he had no idea Hull's army was so strong, to attempt the reduction of Fort Detroit without a moment's delay.

The very hour he knew that war was declared he had notified the officer at St. Joseph. Our hero, whose root idea of a soldier's craft was "secrecy in conception and vigour in execution," had no taste for Prevost's mad doctrine that the aggressed had to await the convenience of the aggressor. Brock had been taught to regard tolerance in war as an "evil of the first magnitude," and so had already instructed the commander at St. Joseph that if war was proclaimed he was to attack Mackinaw at once, but if attacked, "defend your post to the last." Prevost at the same time had ordered this officer "in case of necessity to effect his own retreat," never dreaming he would dare attack Mackinaw. What a contrast the despatches of these two men present! The one full of confidence, fight and resistance, the other shrinking from action and suggesting retreat. Brock's despatch was of later date and more palatable to the fighter at St. Joseph. He started at once for Mackinaw, fifty-five miles distant, with 45 of the 10th Royal veterans, 180 Canadians, many of whom were traders and voyageurs, and convoyed by the brig Caledonia, owned by the North-West Fur Company.

He landed before daybreak. By noon of that day the Union Jack was floating above the basalt cliffs of the Gibraltar of the north, and also over two of the enemy's vessels laden with furs. It is not on record that Captain Roberts was recommended by General Sir George Prevost for promotion! The Indians at Amherstburg were now ready to support the British. Foremost among these was the great Shawanese warrior, Tecumseh.

General Hull, having meantime billeted himself in Colonel Baby's big brick house at Sandwich, issued a proclamation to the "inhabitants of Canada." As a sample of egotism, bluff and bombast it stands unrivalled. He told the inhabitants of Canada that he was in possession of their country, that an ocean and wilderness isolated them from England, whose tyranny he knew they felt. His grand army was ready to release them from oppression. They must choose between liberty and security, as offered by the United States, and war and annihilation, the penalty of refusal. He also threatened instant destruction to any Canadian found fighting by the side of an Indian, though General Dearborn, in command of the United States forces at Niagara, had been authorized by the United States Secretary of War "to organize the warriors of the Seneca Indians" for active service against Canada.

The United States Secretary of War wrote to Hull, saying his action respecting Canadian Indians "met with the approval of the Government." Evidently ashamed, upon reflection, of Hull's threat, that same Government later instructed its commissioners at the Treaty of Ghent, when peace was restored, "to disown and disavow" their former Indian policy.

Hull's extraordinary production, which proved a boomerang, was really the work of Colonel Lewis Cass, his Chief of Staff; but while Hull and Cass were "unloading their rhetoric at Sandwich," our hero was "loading his guns at Mackinaw."



CHAPTER XV.

BROCK ACCEPTS HULL'S CHALLENGE.

With the country's call for a saviour had arisen the man so sorely needed. Vigilant, sagacious and brave, but with most inadequate forces, Brock, faced by a crisis, hurried to repel the invasion by Hull. If Canada was to be saved, Detroit, as well as Mackinaw, must be reduced. The confidence also of the savages must be retained. The smallness of his army demanded the neutrality of the redmen, if not their active aid.

The plan of his campaign was laid before his Executive Council and the members of his staff. As they parted at the door of the General's quarters at midnight, preceding the day on which their gallant leader issued his counter reply to Hull, his final words were: "To hold Amherstburg, gentlemen, is of vital importance. It is the western base from which we must resist attack and advance upon Detroit. It must be held in force."

Brock's written answer to Hull's flamboyant address—edited by his wise adviser, Judge Powell—was eloquent and dignified. Hull's invitation to Canadians to seek protection from Britain under the flag of the United States was, he said, "an insult." He cited the advantages of British connection, and warned the colonists that secession meant the restitution of Canada to the Empire of France. This was the price to be paid by America for the aid given by France to the revolting States during the War of Independence. He reminded them of the constancy of their fathers. "Are you prepared to become slaves to this despot Napoleon, who rules Europe with a rod of iron? If not, arise, repel the invader and give your children no cause to reproach you with sacrificing the richest inheritance of earth, participation in the name, character and freedom of Britons."

He told them not to be dismayed by the enemy's threat to "refuse them quarter should an Indian appear in their ranks." "Why," he continued, "should the brave bands of Indians which now inhabit this colony be prevented from defending their new homes?" These poor people, he reminded them, had actually been punished for their former fidelity to the United States, by the Government of that country taking from them their old homes in Ohio. The King of England had granted them a refuge and given them superior lands in Canada. Why were they to be denied the right to defend their hearths "from invasion by ferocious foes," who, while utilizing Indians themselves, had condemned the practice in others? The threat to refuse quarter to these defenders of invaded rights would, he said, bring about inevitable reprisal, for "the national character of Britain was not less distinguished for humanity than retributive justice."

The obstacles surrounding Brock would have driven an ordinary man to distraction. It is not possible to recite a fraction of them. The Grand River Indians, having received a specious letter from Hull, refused to join the relief expedition for Moraviantown, on the Thames, on which some of Hull's freebooters were marching. Some of the militia declined to leave their homes, suspicious, they said, of Indian treachery. Some, with blood relations in the States, refused point blank to take up arms. Others were busy harvesting, while not a few came out openly as traitors and joined the ranks of Hull. Brock had no reinforcements of regular troops, and small chance of getting any, and, what was far worse, he received little moral support even from the Legislature, and none from other sources from which he had a right to expect it. He called an extra session of the House to enact laws to meet the crisis, to invest him with greater authority and to vote money for defence. He closed his Speech from the Throne with a declaration delivered in sonorous, ringing tones that echoed throughout the chamber:

"We are engaged in an awful and eventful contest. By unanimity and vigour we may teach the enemy this lesson, that a country defended by free men, devoted to the cause of their King and constitution, can never be conquered."

Though Brock's speech "inspired the faithful and foiled the designs of some of the faithless," his demands were conceded in part only, and he left for Fort George with heart filled with misgivings. In answer to his request, Prevost declined to define the extent of the authority with which he had himself vested him. Extreme measures, he told him, must be taken at his own risk. Our hero was one of those limited few who had sounded the depths of the truth that it was easier to do one's duty than to know it. His shrewdness and self-reliance came to the rescue. Seeing that the Niagara River would be selected as the point for invasion, he made it his defensive frontier, while the Detroit River was the offensive front of his campaign. These views he outlined to his staff on the night following the prorogation of the House.

Judge Powell, after a long session of Council, the last to depart, was rising to leave. "Then, sir," said Colonel Macdonell, General Brock's new provincial aide, the young and brilliant Attorney-General of Upper Canada—engaged to Mary Powell, the daughter of the judge—"you really believe we can bombard Detroit successfully? The fort has, I understand, parapets twenty feet high, with four bastions, surrounded by palisades, a ditch and a glacis, and is capable of withstanding a long siege; besides which it has 2,500 fighting men to defend it."

"My good Macdonell," responded our hero, interest and deep regard imprinted on his face, "we fortunately know from Hull's own letters that he has as little confidence in his army as they have confidence in him. I fancy he is merely whistling to keep up his courage. A bold front on our part, with a judicious display of our small force, will give him cause to reflect. Then, provided we enthuse the Indians—and if Mackinaw is fallen, this should not be difficult—Detroit is ours!"

"How about Amherstburg and Sandwich, General?" interjected Justice Powell. "Their safety is essential to your plan."

"As to Amherstburg," said Brock, "it is the pivot point, sir, and must be retained as our base. At Sandwich we already have earthworks completed. If destroyed by Hull they must be rebuilt, for the batteries there must cover our crossing and cannonade the fort while we advance upon it. I have already sent, as you know, a few additional men to Procter—every man I can steal from here. He should be able to hold his own at Amherstburg for a bit longer. The conditions, I admit, are far from satisfactory under the present command, but Chambers is on his way with forty of the 41st, one hundred militia with Merritt, and some of Brant's braves, to put backbone into the garrison."

"General," said Justice Powell, the rays from a waning moon flooding the hall-way as the outer door was opened by Brock for the exit of his councillors, "having implicit confidence in your judgment and military ability, I believe you will overthrow Hull. Assuming that you capture old Fort Lernoult and seize Detroit, what then?"

"What then, sir?" said Brock—emphasizing his parting words with a gesture of his hand—"why, Detroit taken, I shall return here, batter Fort Niagara—providing Prevost consents—and then by a sudden movement I could sweep the frontier from Buffalo to Fort Niagara and complete the salvation of Canada by the occupation of Sackett's Harbor. Good-night, gentlemen. En avant, Detroit!"



CHAPTER XVI.

"EN AVANT, DETROIT!"

Under an August moon Lake Erie shone as a shield of silver. Brock, with a fleet of small craft, batteaux and boats of every kind given him by the settlers, had pulled out from Long Point with 40 regulars and 260 militia for the relief of Amherstburg, two hundred miles distant.

The news of the fall of Mackinaw and the official declaration of war had only reached him as Parliament rose. He had proclaimed martial law before leaving York. He had also heard details of the attack by Hull's raiders on the Moravian settlement, sixty miles up the Thames. He knew of the repulse of 300 United States troops in three attempts to cross the Canard River bridge for an attack on Amherstburg, and of their being driven into the open plains, with loss, by Procter's men.

It was in one of these attacks that the first scalp in the war of 1812 was taken—not by one of Brock's terrible Indians, whose expected excesses had been referred to by Hull, but by a captain of Hull's spies. This officer—one hates to describe him as a white man—wrote his wife, he "had the pleasure of tearing a scalp from the head of a British redskin," and related at length the brutal details of his methods. They were those of a wild beast. "The first stroke of the tomahawk," Hull had stated in his proclamation, "the first attempt with the scalping-knife, will be the signal of a scene of desolation." Yet the first scalp taken in the Detroit campaign was by one of his own officers!

Brock knew that the valorous Hull, dismayed at the advance of the British, had recrossed the river with all but 250 of his men and was hard at work on the defences of Fort Shelby, behind which he had retired. Brock also knew of the affair at Brownstown, where the Indian chief Tecumseh, with twenty-five warriors, had separated himself from Major Muir's detachment, sent to intercept a transport on its way from Ohio to Detroit with supplies for Hull. He had been told of the stratagem by which the great Shawanese warrior had ambushed the 200 American soldiers, near the Raisin River, who had marched from Detroit to escort this convoy and the mails. Seven American officers were killed at the Raisin, twelve of all ranks wounded, and seventy reported missing after the fight. In addition to the provision train, Tecumseh captured what was of much greater importance, another batch of Hull's despondent despatches. It was here that swift justice overtook the scalping Captain McCullough, of Hull's spies, who himself met with the fate of his former victim—the fate he deserved.

Brock also received despatches describing the daring attack by Lieutenant Roulette, of the provincial marine, who in a small boat with a handful of men had boarded and seized in the Detroit River a brigade of eleven batteaux! These, loaded with food, were on their way from Black Rock, and now carried fifty-six wounded American soldiers and two English prisoners. This bold feat of "cutting out" took place under the eyes of an armed escort of 250 American soldiers marching along the river bank.

Messengers from Procter had also informed Brock of the fight at Maguagua, fourteen miles below Detroit. It was here that Muir, with 200 regulars and militia and less than 200 Indians, instead of waiting to be attacked, recklessly assailed a force of 600 Americans who were halted on the edge of the oak forest, supported by two six-pounder guns. Fighting without hope against such odds, the British were outflanked, Muir himself wounded, and an officer killed—the second British soldier to fall in the war of 1812. The American loss was eighteen killed and sixty-three wounded. Though the difference in arms and men was greatly in favour of the Americans, the British were enabled to retreat to the river, where they regained their boats. The American force, suffering from greater casualties, did not attempt to follow them.

Apart from the inferior strength of the British, the chief cause of their reverse at Maguagua was the blunder of some men of the 41st, who fired upon a body of Tecumseh's Indians. In rushing from the woods the redmen were mistaken for the enemy, and falling into a similar error themselves, they returned with interest the fire of the British soldiers. The disorder that followed created a panic. While Tecumseh with his own Indians fought bravely, the seventy Lake Indians under Caldwell suffered from "chill" and fled at the first shot. The most encouraging of these facts, when told to the expedition, aroused in Brock's followers a wild desire to meet Hull's army in battle.

Our hero's trip from Long Point was full of peril and hardship. The lake shore in places was extremely rugged. Precipitous cliffs of red clay and sun-baked sand rose two hundred feet from the boulder-strewn coast. Scarcely a creek offered shelter. The weather was unusually stormy. A heavy surf boomed on the shore. Flocks of water-fowl were driven before the wind. The men were drenched by torrents of rain. Though thirty miles in twenty-four hours was considered the maximum distance for rowing a batteau, nothing could retard this strange armada or dampen the confidence of the men in their resolute leader, who in an open boat led the way. In this boat, which was "headquarters," were Brock and his two aides. A lighted flambeau at the bow acted as a beacon during the night. After five days of great vigilance and galley-slave work, the toilers reached Amherstburg. Without the help of these hardy and resourceful men of the Canadian militia this trip could not have been accomplished.

The conduct of these bold frontiersmen aroused Brock's admiration. His own example had again acted as an inspiration. Shortly after leaving Port Talbot, his batteau, pounding in the sea, ran upon a reef that extended far from shore, and despite oars and pike-poles, remained fast. In the height of the confusion "Master Isaac" sprang overboard, and a moment later voyageur and raw recruit, waist deep in water, following the example of the hero of Castle Cornet, lifted the batteau over the dangerous ledge.

When at midnight the boats passed up the Strait—through which the ambitious La Salle and Father Hennepin had passed in 1679—and grated on the gravel beach at Amherstburg, Brock was greeted with a volley of musketry by the Indians. This was contrary to his rigid rubric of war. Such waste of powder must not be tolerated. He turned to the Indian superintendent, "Do pray, Colonel Elliott," said he, "explain my reasons for objecting to the firing and tell the Chiefs I will talk with them to-morrow."



CHAPTER XVII.

OUR HERO MEETS TECUMSEH.

A few minutes only had elapsed when Elliott returned. The sentry's challenge caused Brock to look up from the table, littered with plans and despatches. Another figure darkened the doorway.

"This, sir," said Elliott, "is Tecumseh, the Shawanese chief of whom you have heard, and who desires to be presented to you."

The General, who had removed the stains of travel and was in uniform, rose to his full height, bowed, extended his hand and explained in manly fashion the reason for asking that the firing be stopped. The contrast presented by the two men was striking. The old world and the new, face to face—a scene for the brush of an impressionist. Brock, tall, fair, big-limbed, a blue-eyed giant, imposing in scarlet coat and blue-white riding trousers, tasselled Hessian boots, and cocked-hat in hand. On his benevolent face was an irresistible smile.

The Indian, though of middle height, was of most perfect proportions, an athlete in bronze, lithe and supple as a panther. His oval face, set in a frame of glistening black hair, shone like a half-polished copper relief. Overlooking the nose, straight as one of his own arrows, and from which some tinkling silver coins were suspended, a pair of hawk-like eyes, hazel-black and unflinching—in which the secrets of the world seemed slumbering—gleamed upon Brock. His dress, a hunting jacket of tanned deer-skin and close-fitting leggings. Fringed mocassins of the same material, richly embroidered in silk and porcupine quills dyed in divers colours, encased his feet. The light from the open log fire flickered fitfully, half revealing the antlered heads of moose and caribou and other trophies of the chase that, hanging from the rafters, looked down upon the group, adding weirdness to the picture.

Brock briefly explained that he had come to fight the King's enemies, enemies who so far had never seen his back, and who were Tecumseh's enemies also. "Would Tecumseh maintain an honourable warfare?"

Perhaps no eulogy of Brock was ever penned that so well summed up his qualities as did the terse, four-worded certificate of character uttered by the Indian before replying to the British general's appeal. Tecumseh looked "Master Isaac's" commanding physique up and over, over and down—Brock's caution as to waste of powder doubtless weighing with him—until eye met eye, and then, impulsively extending his thin brown hand, turned to his followers, exclaiming in tones of highest admiration:

"This is a man!"

Assenting "Ughs" and "Ho-hos" followed in rapid succession, and in response to Brock's invitation the headmen, painted and plumed and in striped blankets, squatted on their stained reed mats and wild-beast skins on the basswood log floor. Questioned as to the nature of the country westward, Tecumseh took a roll of elm-bark and with the point of his scalping-knife traced on its white inner surface the features of the region—hills, forests, trails, rivers, muskegs and clearings. Rough, perhaps, but as accurate, he said, as if drawn by a pale-face teebahkee-wayninni (surveyor).

That night, after Tecumseh's return, Brock again held council with his staff, proposing an attack on Detroit. Only one of his chief officers, the staunch colonial quartermaster, Lieutenant-Colonel Nichol, agreed with him. Colonel Henry Procter, from whom he had expected whole-hearted support, strongly objected. History teaches us that the conception of a daring plan is the offspring of great minds only. Procter was not of this class, as his subsequent record shows. Some of our hero's critics have described his resolve to attack Detroit as "audacious and desperate." Isaac Brock was, of course, nothing if not contemptuously daring. The greater the difficulty that faced him the more was he determined to challenge the obstacle, that to a less confident man would have been rejected as insurmountable. He had, however, resolved and planned not only upon taking Detroit, but, if need be, the pursuit and capture of Hull's entire army, compelling him to either stand and fight or surrender. With habitual prescience he had weighed well the issues and chosen the lesser alternative. His own defeat and possibly his death, on the one hand, against the probable salvation of half a continent on the other. What true soldier could hesitate?

While patiently hearing objections, he brushed the most of them aside as mere flies on the wheel. Surely the way had been opened to him. The seized despatches had revealed the discord among Hull's troops and shown him that while the United States militia, the flower of Ohio and Kentucky, was of good material, the United States soldiers were not. He knew that the situation in Upper Canada called for extreme measures, and that the time to strike was now or never, for his scouts had truly reported that 350 United States mounted troops were pressing close upon his rear. They were, in fact, only a mile or two distant. If his own inferior force was outflanked, or his communication with the Canadian interior cut, it spelled utter disaster. He was in a wilderness without hope of reinforcements. As Colonel Cass, the United States commander, later reported to the President, Brock was "between two fires and with no hope of succour." Brock knew he must act at once or even retreat might be impossible. With inborn acumen he saw at a glance the peril of his own position, and with cool courage hastened to avert it. He realized that upon the "destruction or discomfiture" of Hull's forces "the safety of the province depended."

Brock listened closely to Procter's argument—by this time he knew, of course, that Hull's own line of communication with his reserves had been cut—then rising, when all who cared to speak had finished, he said: "Gentlemen, I have definitely decided on crossing the river and attacking Fort Detroit. Instead of further advice I must beg of you to give me your hearty support. The general orders for to-morrow will be issued at once."

This decision was typical of the man of action. "Prudent only where recklessness was a fault, and hazardous only when hesitation meant defeat."



CHAPTER XVIII.

AN INDIAN POW-WOW.

It was a picturesque council of white men and Indians that was held at dawn in an open glade of the forest. The fragrant odours of the bush mingled with the pungent smoke of the red willow-bark, puffed from a hundred pipes. Conspicuous at this pow-wow was Tecumseh, who across his close-fitting buckskin hunting jacket, which descended to his knees and was trimmed with split leather fringe, wore a belt of wampum, made of the purple enamel of mussel shells—cut into lengths like sections of a small pipe-stem, perforated and strung on sinew. On his head he wore a toque of eagle plumes.

"My object," said Brock, addressing the Indians, "is to assist you to drive the 'Long-knives' [Americans] from the frontier, and repel invasion of the King's country." Tecumseh, speaking for his tribesmen, remarked, not without sarcasm, that "their great father, King George, having awakened out of a long sleep, they were now ready to shed their last drop of blood in that father's service."

"The pale faces," he continued, after an impressive pause—and the fire of his eloquence and his gestures swayed his hearers like the reeds on the river bank—"the Americans who want to fight the British are our enemies.... They came to us hungry and they cut off the hands of our brothers who gave them corn.... We gave them rivers of fish and they poisoned our fountains.... We gave them forest-clad mountains and valleys full of game, and in return what did they give our warriors and our women? Rum and trinkets and—a grave!... The shades of our fathers slaughtered on the banks of the Tippecanoe can find no rest.... Their eyes can see no herds on the hills of light in the hunting grounds of the dead!... Until our enemies are no more we must be as one man, under one chief, whose name is—Death!... I have spoken."

Tecumseh, it should be known, bore a personal grudge against the Americans, especially against the 4th Regiment, then in garrison at Detroit, the "heroes of Tippecanoe." This was a terrible misnomer, for under General Harrison, with 1,000 soldiers, less than a year before, they had taken part in the slaughter of Tecumseh's half-armed band of 600 men and women on the banks of the Tippecanoe River, during that chief's absence with many of his warriors, and had laid waste his village. With a perhaps pardonable spirit of vindictiveness, such as is shared by both redskin and white man, the human-being in him thirsted for revenge.

Brock, perceiving Tecumseh's sagacity and influence over the savages, invited the Shawanese and Wawanosh, Ojebekun and the other sachems, to a private council. Here he unfolded his plans. Before doing this he made it a condition that no barbarities were to be committed. "The scalping-knife," said he, "must be discarded, and forbearance, compassion and clemency shown to the vanquished." He told them he wanted to restrict their military operations to the known rules of war, as far as was possible under the singular conditions in which they fought, and exacted a promise from the lofty-minded Tecumseh that his warriors "should not taste pernicious liquor until they had humbled the Big-knives." "If this resolution," remarked Brock, "is persevered in, you must surely conquer."

Brock's rapid ascendency over the Indians was astonishing; they already revered him as a common father.

That same afternoon our hero, moving up with his entire command to Sandwich, occupied the mansion of Colonel Baby, the great fur-trader, just evacuated by Hull. In the spacious hall hooks were nailed to the rafters, from which were suspended great steel-yards, by which the beaver packs were weighed. Scattered on the hewn floor in much profusion were soldiers' accoutrements, service and pack-saddles, iron-bound chests mixed up with bear-traps and paddles, rolls of birch-bark, leather hunting shirts, and the greasy blankets of voyageur and redskin. The room on the right became Brock's headquarters, and in this room he penned his first demand upon General Hull.

"My force," so he wrote, "warrants my demanding the immediate surrender of Fort Detroit." Anxious to prevent bloodshed, and knowing Hull's dread of the Indians, he also played upon his fears. "The Indians," he added, "might get beyond my control." This summons was carried by Colonel Macdonell and Major Glegg, under a flag of truce, across the river.

The batteries at Sandwich consisted of one eighteen-pounder, two twelve-pounders, and two 51/2-inch howitzers. Back of these artificial breastworks extended both a wilderness and the garden of Canada. Beyond the meadows, aflame with autumn wild-flowers, beyond the cultivated clearings, rose a forest of walnut, oak, basswood, birch and poplar trees, seared with age, of immense height and girth, festooned with wild honeysuckle and other creepers. In the open were broad orchards bending under their harvest of red and yellow fruit—apples and plums, peaches, nectarines and cherries—and extensive vineyards. Huge sugar maples challenged giant pear trees, whose gnarled trunks had resisted the storms of a century. To the north the floor of the forest was interlaced with trails, which, with the intention of deceiving Hull's spies as to the strength of Brock's forces, had been crossed and recrossed, and countermarched and doubled over, by the soldiers and Tecumseh's half-naked braves.

The air was filled with the fragrance of orchard and forest. Facing our hero, flowed the river, broad, swift and deep; tufted wolf-willow, waving rushes and gray hazel fringing the banks. Across and beyond this almost mile-wide ribbon of water, the imposing walls of Fort Detroit confronted him. Approaching him at a rapid gait he at last espied his two despatch bearers, their scarlet tunics vivid against the green background. They reported that, after waiting upon Hull for two hours without being granted an interview, they were handed the following reply:

"General Hull is prepared to meet any force brought against him, and accept any consequences."

Brock instructed his gunners to acknowledge the receipt of this challenge with the thunder of their batteries, and from then, far into the night, shells and round-shot shrieked their way across the river, the answering missiles from Hull's seven twenty-four-pounders breaking in a sheet of flame from the very dust created by the British cannon-balls that exploded on the enemy's breastworks. Through the irony of fate, the first shot fired under Brock's personal orders in the cause of Canadian freedom killed a United States officer, an intimate friend of the British artilleryman who had trained the gun. Such are the arguments of war.

The cannonade proving ineffective, as judged by visible results, Brock issued orders to cross the river at dawn, when he would make the attempt to take the fort by storm—and soldier and militiaman bivouacked on their arms.

* * * * *

Camp fires were extinguished, but the tireless fireflies danced in the blackness of the wood. The river gurgled faintly in the wind-stirred reeds. From out the gloom of the thicket came the weird coco-coco of the horned owl. From the starlit sky above fell the shrill cry of the mosquito hawk, "peepeegeeceese, peepeegeeceese!" From an isolated bark tepee came the subdued incantation of the Indian medicine-man, while above the singing of the tree-tops and over all, clear and with clock-like regularity, floated the challenge of the sentry and answering picket:

"Who goes there?"

"A friend."

"All's well."



CHAPTER XIX.

THE ATTACK ON DETROIT.

Morning came all too slowly for Brock's impatient soldiers. At last the reveille warned the expectant camp. The sun rose, a red-hot shell out of the faint August haze, huge and threatening. With its advent the British batteries resumed their fire, aided by the guns on the Queen Charlotte and Hunter, which lay in the river, above the village known to-day as Windsor, to cover the embarkation of the troops in batteaux and canoes.

Brock's entire force consisted of only 330 regulars and 400 militia, some of whom, acting on a happy thought, were disguised in discarded uniforms of the 41st. This army was supported by five pieces of artillery. All crossed the river in safety, landing at Spring Wells, four miles below. The Indians, 600 strong, under Tecumseh, in addition to the men of his own nation, consisted of many Sioux, Wyandottes and Dacotahs. The majority of these crossed under cover of the night. History records no instance of a determined force being stopped by a river. The Detroit River presented an animated picture. Edging their way through a maze of boats and batteaux, and in marked contrast to the scarlet-coated soldiers and blue-shirted sailors, bark canoes on which were drawn in flaring colours a variety of barbaric designs, flitted here and there, their crews of half-naked savages fearsome in fresh war-paint and gaudy feathers. Coo-ees, shrieks and shrill war-whoops—"Ah-oh! Ah-oo!" like the dismal yells of a pack of coyotes—rent the air, the discordant din ever and anon drowned by the thunder of the guns from the Sandwich batteries.

Upon landing Brock mustered his men. The reports showed 750 of all ranks, including the voyageurs left in charge of the river squadron. The 600 Indians deployed in the shelter of the woods, skirmishing to effect a flank movement. The column, having formed, was moved forward in sections, and at double distance, to lend a fictitious air of strength; the light artillery, of three, six, and two three-pounders, being immediately in rear of the advance guards, the whole preceded by fluttering standards and rolling drums. Three generations ago! Yet you can see it all to-day as plainly as Brock saw it, if you but close your eyes and conjure up the past.

The enemy, over 2,000 strong, drawn up in line upon an overlooking rise, had planted in the roadway, commanding the approach to the town, two twenty-four pounders, each loaded with six dozen grapeshot, around which the gunners stood with burning fuses, challenging our hero's advance.

Up and down, in front of the line, rode Isaac Brock on his gray charger, his brilliant uniform—khaki was unknown in those days—flashing in the morning sun, a shining mark. A command here, a kindly rebuke there, a word of encouragement to all ranks; the eyes of Britain and Canada were upon them; they might have to take the fort by storm,—even so, honour and glory awaited them.... Forward then, for King and country!

The rat-a-tat-tat of the kettle-drums, the clear-cut whistle of the fifes, the resonant roll of the big drums, the steady tramp, tramp of armed men—and the human machine was in motion.

* * * * *

The long grim guns on Fort Detroit and Hull's field-pieces pointed their black muzzles at the column. Up and down, in front of his men, rode Isaac Brock.

* * * * *

Now this was more than some flesh and blood could stand. Spurring his horse, acting Quartermaster-General Nichol reined up alongside his beloved commander. "General," he said, saluting his leader, while the soldiers' faces expressed dumb approval, "forgive me, but I cannot forbear entreating you not to expose yourself. If we lose you, we lose all. I pray you, allow the troops to advance, led by their own officers."

"Master Nichol," said Brock, turning in his saddle and returning the salute of the gallant Quartermaster, "I fully appreciate your kindly advice, but I feel that, in addition to their sense of loyalty and duty, there are many here following me from a feeling of personal regard, and I will never ask them to go where I do not lead."

Before him spread the plain, broken here and there with coulees and clumps of bush. A partly fenced roadway, with some scattered houses on the river bank, but no barbed-wire entanglements, impeded his movements. The introduction of such pleasant devices was left for a higher civilization!

* * * * *

The column was in motion. The steady onward tramp, tramp of this thin red line, raw recruit and grizzly veteran shoulder to shoulder, struck fear into the heart of the unfortunate Hull. The prospect, though his troops outnumbered the British three to one, was clearly war to the knife. Brock's meaning was apparent. Should he or should he not accept the Englishman's challenge? He could extract no comfort out of that solid scarlet front, bristling with naked steel, now fast approaching in battle array with even, ominous tread.

* * * * *

The siege-proof walls of the fort lay behind him. His irresolute heart grew faint, and in the flash of a flintlock in its pan, honour was sacrificed and fame cast to the winds. A brave army of martyrs, over 2,000 strong, was rightabout faced, and drinking the cup of humiliation, that only men of courage can drain to the bitter dregs, this army, eager to lock bayonets with the British, was actually ordered to retreat into the shelter of Fort Detroit!



CHAPTER XX.

BROCK'S VICTORY.

Reaching a ravine, Brock ordered up his artillery and prepared to assault. A shell from the British battery at Sandwich roared over the river and crashed through an embrasure of Fort Shelby, killing four American officers. The Savoyard river was reached and the outlying tan-yard crossed. Brock's troops, keyed up, with nerves tense under the strain of suspense, and every moment expecting a raking discharge of shot and shell from the enemy's big guns, heard with grim satisfaction the General's orders to "prepare for assault."

The field-pieces were trained upon the fort, to cover the rush of the besiegers. The gunners, with bated breath and burning fuses, awaited the final command, when lo! an officer bearing a white flag emerged from the fort, while a boat with another flag of truce was seen crossing the river to the Sandwich battery. Macdonell and Glegg galloped out to meet the messenger. They returned with a despatch from the American general, Hull, to the British general, Brock. This was the message:

"The object of the flag which crossed the river was to propose a cessation of hostilities for an hour, for the purpose of entering into negotiations for the surrender of Detroit."

* * * * *

An hour later the British troops, with General Isaac Brock at their head, marched through the smiling fields and orchards, passed over the fort draw-bridge, and, surrounded by a host of fierce-looking and indignant militia of Ohio and "the heroes of Tippecanoe," hauled down the Stars and Stripes—which had waved undisturbed over Fort Lernoult since its voluntary evacuation by the British in 1796—and, in default of a British ensign, hoisted a Union Jack—which a sailor had worn as a body-belt—over the surrendered fortress. British sentinels now guarded the ramparts. The bells of old St. Anne's saluted the colors. The "Grand Army of the West," by which pretentious title Hull had seen fit to describe his invading force, melted like mist before the rising sun.

Several unattached Canadians, costumed as redmen, followed Brock inside the fort, and, baring their white arms for Hull's especial edification, declared they had so disguised themselves in order to show their contempt for his cruel threat respecting instant death to "Indians found fighting."

The terms of capitulation included not only one general officer and 2,500 men of all ranks—the would-be conquerors of Canada—2,500 stand of arms, 33 pieces of cannon, the Adams brig of war, and immense quantities of stores and munitions, valued at L40,000—but Fort Shelby and the town of Detroit and 59,700 square miles of United States territory. Nor were these all, for the fort standard—to the wild delight of Tecumseh's warriors—a highly-prized trophy, it being the "colours" of the 4th United States regiment, the vaunted "heroes of Tippecanoe," passed into the keeping of the British.

Canada was saved!

It was then that those officers who strongly opposed Brock's determination to attack became suddenly wise after the event and eager to share the honour. The temptation to improve the opportunity, to any man less strong than our hero, would have been irresistible, but there was no display of vainglory, no cheap boasting. The sword of the conquered American general was accepted with manly deference and the consideration due to his rank, and he was told, without solicitation on his part, he could return to the United States on parole. Then Brock hurriedly dictated a brief and modest despatch apprising Sir George Prevost of the "capture of this very important post," and quite realizing that he was merely an instrument in the hands of Providence, and gratitude and the happiness of those he held most dear being uppermost in his mind, the captor of Detroit wrote this characteristic letter.

"Headquarters, Detroit, "August 16, 1812.

"My dear Brothers and Friends,—Rejoice at my good fortune and join me in prayers to heaven. I send you a copy of my hasty note to Sir George. Let me know that you are all united and happy.

"ISAAC."

And so it came about that in this strange and noble fashion General Brock—"Master Isaac of St. Peter's Port"—overcame the enemy in the wilds of Michigan and passed his fourth milestone.



CHAPTER XXI.

CHAGRIN IN THE UNITED STATES.

The conduct of the Indians under Tecumseh at Detroit had been marked by great heroism and strict adherence to their pledges. "The instant the enemy submitted, his life became sacred." In recognition of Tecumseh's work, and in the presence of the troops formed in the fort square, Brock handed him his silver-mounted pistols, and taking off his sash, tied it round the body of the chief.

A suspicion of a smile—the faint smile of elation of the well-trained child accepting a prize—flitted across the Indian's finely chiselled face as, proudly inclining his head, he silently took the crimson band. Then unwinding his own parti-colored, closely-woven Red River belt, "Would the great white shemogonis (warrior)," he whispered, "accept the simple sash of the Shawanese in return?"

To this there was a sequel. The next day, when he bade Brock farewell, Tecumseh wore no sash. "Roundhead," he explained, "was an older, an abler warrior than himself. While he was present he could not think of wearing such a badge of distinction." He had given the sash to the Wyandotte chieftain. Tecumseh proved himself a greater diplomat than Hull.

The papers of surrender signed, Brock hastened to liberate Dean, a soldier of the 41st, wounded and taken prisoner at the Canard river, with another man, while gallantly defending the bridge against a large body of the enemy. In a voice broken with emotion Brock told him that he had "nobly upheld the traditions of the service and was an honour to his profession." Then he singled out Lieutenant Roulette, of the sloop Hunter, a French Canadian, who captured eighteen prizes during the war and was the leading spirit in many gallant events. "I watched you during the action," said the General. "You behaved like a lion. I will remember you." In the orders of that afternoon Brock praised the conduct of his troops. He laid stress upon the "discipline and determination that had decided an enemy, infinitely more numerous in men and artillery, and protected by a strong fortification, to propose capitulation."

The effect of the news in Upper Canada was electrical. Brock became the idol of the people and was acclaimed "hero and saviour of Upper Canada." His performance was a record one. In nineteen days he had met the Legislature, settled important public business, transported a small army 300 miles, 200 of which was by open boat in stormy waters, compelled the surrender of an enemy three times his strength, entrenched in a protected fort, and seized 60,000 square miles of United States mainland and islands.

To the American people the news came as a thunder-clap. President Madison's chagrin was indescribable. After all the insulting remarks and bombastic prophecies of himself and Clay, Calhoun, Eustis and others, the humiliation was as gall and wormwood. Clay, the apostate, later on swallowed his words and signed the treaty of peace. Eustis, the Secretary of War, had boasted that he would "take the whole country and ask no favours, for God has given us the power and the means." But God saw fit to confound the despoiler. Hull was, of course, made a scapegoat. Tried by court-martial, he was found guilty of cowardice and neglect, and sentenced to death, but pardoned by the President. His son died fighting at Lundy's Lane. The officers of Hull's command, who were almost united in opposing surrender, as brave men felt their position keenly. Never let us forget that no one race holds a monopoly in courage, that no nation has exclusive control of the spirit of patriotism. Fortunate it is indeed for most of us that the loftier qualities of man can not be copyrighted by the individual. A share of these has been bestowed in wise proportion upon all members of the human family. To those who seek to emulate the character and deeds of the world's famous men, certain essential qualities of mind may even be acquired and developed by all, but to possess the "fullness of perfection" cannot be the lot of every man.

Having finished "the business" that took him to Detroit, our hero did not waste an hour. Leaving Procter in command, he started before morning of the next day for Fort George, anxious to carry out his plans and assume the offensive on the Niagara frontier.

He embarked in the Chippewa, a small trading schooner, with seventy of the Ohio Rifles as prisoners, and took, as a guard, a rifle company commanded by his young friend, Captain Robinson, subsequently Chief Justice Robinson, "again winning golden opinions from the men by his urbanity."

On Lake Erie he met the Lady Prevost, of fourteen guns, the commander of which, after saluting the hero of Detroit with seventeen guns, boarded the Chippewa, handing him despatches that notified him of an armistice, which Sir George Prevost had actually concluded with the American general, Dearborn, on August 9th! Brock's mortification was profound. His cherished plan, to sweep the Niagara frontier and destroy the United States naval arsenal at Sackett's Harbour, was again frustrated.

A diversion occurred that morning which for a time drove the unpardonable armistice from Brock's thoughts. A heavy mist hung over the water. It hid the shore. Deceived by this, the skipper of the Chippewa, who thought he was in Fort Erie harbour, discovered, as the fog lifted, that they were on the American side and close to Buffalo. The situation was perilous and dramatic. With the melting of the haze the wind dropped. Brock saw on the Buffalo shore, within easy hail, a concourse of inquisitive people trying to make out the nationality of his ship. Believing the skipper, was in league with the enemy, Brock turned upon him savagely.

"You scoundrel," said he, "you have betrayed me. Let but one shot be fired and I will run you up at the yard-arm." Fortunately, the Queen Charlotte, in Canadian water, was seen and signalled, and, the wind rising, she convoyed the Chippewa and her precious passenger into safety.

The news of the armistice dumbfounded the General. Instead of battering Fort Niagara and attacking Sackett's Harbour, he had to order Procter to cancel the expedition for the relief of Fort Wayne, in the Wabash country, and himself hurry on to Fort George. At Chippewa he was received with wild welcome by the river residents and the populace from the countryside. A deputation of prominent men met him at Queenston, placed him in an open carriage, and with martial music he was escorted in triumph to Fort George. After receiving at Niagara the congratulations of the lady to whom he was engaged, Brock took schooner for York and Kingston. At both of these places fervid demonstrations were showered upon him. But "Master Isaac's" head could not be turned either by success or adulation. The old spirit of self-effacement asserted itself. "The gallant band of brave men," he said, "at whose head I marched against the enemy, are the proper objects of your gratitude. The services of the militia have been duly appreciated and will never be forgotten."

Isaac's modesty again served to increase the homage and profound devotion of the people.

Justice Powell voiced the views of the citizens of Upper Canada when he declared Brock could "boast of the most brilliant success, with the most inadequate means, which history records.... It was something fabulous that a handful of troops, supported by a few raw militia, could invade the country of an enemy of doubtful numbers, in his own fortress, and make all prisoners without the loss of a man."

"If this sort of thing lasts," commented our hero to a friend, "I am afraid I shall do some foolish thing, for if I know myself there is no want of what is called courage in my nature, and I can only hope I shall not be led into some scrape."



CHAPTER XXII.

PREVOST'S ARMISTICE.

The armistice paralyzed Brock's movements. All the moral influence and material advantage gained by the captures of Mackinaw and Detroit were nullified by this incredible blunder, for which no reason, military or civil, has ever been assigned. The loyal volunteers were released from duty. Brock's Indian allies returned to their villages. Prevost's policy of peace had become a mental malady. In spite of our hero's pleadings, and though Prevost actually knew, before the fall of Detroit, that President Madison would not extend the two weeks' armistice, the Governor-General forbade Brock attacking either Sackett's Harbour, the key to American supremacy on the lakes, or Fort Niagara.

"War," wrote Prevost, "has never yet been declared by England. Peace is possible."

Brock, smarting under restraint and handcuffed by red tape, was compelled to look on while the enemy brought up reinforcements, powder, shot, provisions and other munitions of war, by water to Lewiston. General Van Rensselaer, in command of the American forces at Lewiston, wrote to the President stating that by "keeping up a bold front he had succeeded in getting from General Sheaffe at Fort George the uninterrupted use of the lakes and rivers." The strategic advantage to the enemy of this cessation of hostilities and the privileges conceded was enormous. Prevost realized his error too late. The following year, conceiving it then to be his special mission to borrow our dead hero's policy, he attacked Sackett's Harbour, but his "cautious calculation" was, of course, rewarded by ignoble defeat, and ultimately, after the Plattsburg fiasco, by a court-martial. In his civil administration of Canada Sir George Prevost may have been a success; as a soldier he was a sad failure.

Isaac was daily proving the truth of the precept, recognized by all men sooner or later, that life's values lie not so much in its victories as in its strife.

Though Brock awoke after Detroit to find himself famous, and a hero whose prowess far exceeded that of his ancestor, the Jurat of the Royal Court of Guernsey, over whose exploits he used to ponder seated on the Lion's Rock at Cobo, he was still the same "Master Isaac," still the "beloved brother." Separation from his kinsmen only served to draw him closer.

Crossing Lake Ontario gave him the opportunity he longed for. He wrote to his brothers collectively, telling them the sundry details of his success, "which was beyond his expectation." He hoped the affair would meet with recognition at the War Office. Though admitting it was a desperate measure, he told them "it proceeded from a cool calculation of the pros and cons," and as Colonel Procter had opposed it, he was not surprised that envy now induced that officer "to attribute to good fortune what in reality was the result of my own knowledge and discernment." But praise and honours, though sweet to our hero, who after all was only mortal, were secondary to the fact that he would be in a position to contribute something to the comfort and happiness of his brothers. The value of the "treasure" captured at Detroit was placed at L40,000. Brock's share of this was a substantial sum.

"When I returned heaven thanks," he wrote, "for my amazing success, I thought of you all, your late sorrows forgotten, and I felt that the many benefits which for a series of years I received from you were not unworthily bestowed." But the hope that they were reunited was always the dominant note. "Let me know, my dearest brothers," he pleaded, "that you are all again united." Then, out of his own knowledge, wrought of deep experience in the world's wide field, he proceeded: "The want of union was nearly losing this province, without even a struggle; rest assured, it operates in the same degree in regard to families."

Brock's despatches, with the story of the capture of Detroit and the colours of the 4th Regiment, United States Army, the oriflamme of the "heroes of Tippecanoe," reached London the morning of October 6th, the anniversary of his birth. His brother William resided close to the city. A tumultuous clangour of bells and booming of guns from St. James' Park and the Tower of London rent the air. When asked by his wife the reason for the jubilation he jokingly replied, "Why, for Isaac, of course. You surely have not forgotten this is his birthday." But William, on reaching the city, learned to his amazement that his jesting words were true. The salvoes of artillery and peals of bells were indeed in honour of General Brock's victory in far-off Michigan.