Neither King nor Imperial Government was slow to recognize our hero's achievements. The Prince Regent, who expressed his appreciation of Brock's "able, judicious and decisive conduct," bestowed upon him an extra knighthood of the Order of the Bath, in consideration, so ran the document, "of all the difficulties with which he was surrounded during the invasion of the Province, and the singular judgment, firmness, skill and courage with which he surmounted them so effectually."

When the glittering insignia of his new rank reached Canada, Sir Isaac Brock's eyes were closed in death. His inanimate body, from which one of the noblest souls of the century had fled, lay rigid in its winding-sheet at Fort George.

To Major Glegg, who bore the General's despatches from Canada, the Prince Regent remarked that "General Brock had done more in an hour than could have been done in six months by negotiation." The fulfilment of Isaac's favourite maxim, "Say and do," was being demonstrated in a most remarkable manner.



CHAPTER XXIII.

"HERO, DEFENDER, SAVIOUR."

General Sheaffe, the only field officer available, and junior colonel of the 49th, of whom the reader has already heard, had been brought from the East to take command at Niagara in Brock's absence. Like Prevost, he was born in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1763, a son of the deputy collector of that port. There the two had been school-fellows, and both found it difficult to engage in vigorous diplomatic or military conflict with the Americans. To Sheaffe's credit, it should be said that he applied for another station.

It was Sheaffe, however, who acceded to General Dearborn's specious demand that the freedom of the lakes and rivers be extended to the United States Government during the armistice. This was done while Brock was in the West. Sheaffe it also was who, with hat in hand and strange alacrity, later agreed, despite his first terrible blunder, to repeat the offence. On the very afternoon that the British defeated the Americans at Queenston, and when the moral effect of that victory, followed up by vigorous attack, would have saved Canada from a continuance of the war, and deplorable loss of life and trade, Sheaffe actually agreed to another armistice. For this second truce, like his first, "no valid reason, military or civil, has ever been assigned." As far as the British were concerned, neither of these two was necessary, but, on the contrary, directly to their disadvantage. Isaac Brock, alas! was not made in duplicate.

Our hero remained but a few hours in Kingston. He was needed in Niagara. The enemy was burning to avenge Detroit. The sight of Hull's ragged legions passing as prisoners of war along the Canadian bank of the river, bound for Montreal, did not tend to soften the hearts of the Americans. Stores and ordnance continued to pour into Lewiston. Brock needed 1,000 additional regulars. He might as well have asked for the moon. Early in September he stated that if he could maintain his position six weeks longer "the campaign would end in a manner little expected in the States." Scores of American marines and seamen were marking time, waiting for the launching of the vessels which Captain Chauncey had been given free license to build to ensure United States supremacy of the lakes. Prevost's eyes were still bandaged. Brock warned his grenadiers of the 49th to be ready for trouble. He foresaw that the Niagara river would be crossed, but at what point was uncertain. Stray musket-balls whistled across at night as thick as whip-poor-wills in summer. This firing was "the unauthorized warfare between sentinels." The peaceful citizens of Newark, returning from dance or card-party—even the imminence of war did not wholly stifle their desire for innocent revelry—found it embarrassing.

Though Van Rensselaer's force now numbered 6,300 men, he was still afraid to attack Brock. Invited by the United States Government to take up arms, 400 Seneca Indians "went upon the war-path," and performed ghost-dances on the streets of Lewiston. Prevost, with no proper conception of the doctrine of "what we have we hold," ordered Brock to "evacuate Detroit and the territory of Michigan." To "the man behind the gun," who had but just donated this 60,000 square miles of realty to the Empire, such instructions were hardly to his taste. Armed with powers of discretion, our hero declined. Meanwhile Isaac's heart was sore. The situation was galling. If there was to be no more fighting, why should he not get his release, join Wellington in Portugal, and renounce Canada? Unrest and vigilance best describe the order of his days, while waiting attack. The death of the ever-attentive Dobson, who had passed away before Brock's departure for Detroit, and the absence of the faithful sergeant-major—now Adjutant FitzGibbon—distressed him. In an attempt by General Brown to capture some British batteaux at Tousaint Island, on the St. Lawrence, the Americans had been repulsed by Brock's gallant protege.

Everything now pointed to an early attack by the enemy in force. General Van Rensselaer, with an ascertained army of at least 6,300, of which 2,600 were militia, wrote that he "would cross the river in the rear of Fort George, take it by storm, carry the Heights of Queenston, destroy the British ships—the Prince Regent and Earl Moira—at the mouth of the river, leave Brock no rallying point, appal the minds of the Canadians, and wipe away the past disgrace."

On one of his visits to Fort George he had remarked to Brock, who had laughingly pointed out two beautiful brass howitzers taken from General Wayne, "Oh, yes, they are old friends of mine; I must take them back." They were not taken back in Brock's time. Even with his grand army of 6,300, his 400 Seneca braves, and his written admission that Niagara was weakly garrisoned, it is certain Van Rensselaer would have still delayed attack, unless he had been told by his spies that Brock had returned to Detroit. Then, with valour oozing from his finger tips, he plucked up courage to attack the lair in the lion's absence.

At this juncture an untoward event occurred, in the re-taking by the Americans of the brig Detroit, formerly the United States brig Adams—captured, as we know, by Roulette—and the trading brig Caledonia. They were at anchor at the head of the Niagara River, off Black Rock. The irregular regiments of Hull's command, under the terms of surrender, were on board on their way to their Ohio homes, via Lake Erie and Buffalo. The two vessels reached Fort Erie harbour safely, and being rightly regarded by the British as immune from attack, were left undefended, in charge of an officer and nine men only, most of whom were voyageurs. In addition to the prisoners, the two brigs carried great quantities of fur and 600 packs of deer skins. During darkness Lieutenant Ellis, with three armed boats and 150 United States troops and sailors, dropped alongside. Roulette and his nine men fought desperately, one being killed and four wounded, but both vessels, of course, fell into the enemy's hands. This attack was contrary to the rules of war, and a violation of the sanctity of the flag which "continued to float as long as there were American prisoners on board, awaiting to be landed on United States soil."

Brock regarded this loss as a calamity. It was, he wrote to Prevost, "likely to reduce him to great distress." His constant fears that the enemy would secure control of both Lakes Erie and Ontario were well founded. He begged Prevost to let him destroy the vessels Chauncey, the American, was building on Squaw Island. Prevost, of course, besought him to forbear. Isaac Brock, exasperated and with tied hands, was "doomed to the bitterest of all griefs, to see clearly and yet be able to do nothing." Yet while he worked in chains his preparedness was a source of wonder to those behind the scenes.

Even no less a critic than John Lovett, General Van Rensselaer's military secretary, was impressed with what he saw through his field-glasses from Lewiston heights. "Every three or four miles, on every eminence," he wrote a friend, "Brock has erected a snug battery, the last saucy argument of kings, poking their white noses and round black nostrils right upon your face, ready to spit fire and brimstone in your very teeth, if you were to offer to turn squatter on John Bull's land." Influenced by these signs of "business," the United States officers were ordered to "dress as much like their men as possible, so that at 150 yards they might not be recognized." This was probably due to one of the last orders issued by our hero, who warned his men that, when the enemy crossed the river, to withhold their musketry fire until he was well within range, and then, "if he lands, attack him at the point of the bayonet with determined resolution."

With clairvoyance that would have done credit to a mind-reader, Brock knew that attack was imminent. To him the wind that blew across the river October 12th was laden with omens of war. The air seemed charged with the acrid smell of burnt powder. The muffled beat of drums, the smothered boom of artillery, the subdued clash of steel meeting steel, the stealthy tramp of armed men, seemed to encompass him.

* * * * *

Brock was at his headquarters. He gazed from the window. The storm outside was hurling great splashes of rain against the narrow casement. To and fro, over the carpeted floor, he paced that evening for an hour or more, uninterrupted and alone. It was thus he marshalled facts and weighed conclusions. Powerful brain and vigorous frame acted in concert. He was enjoying the fulfilment of the promise of his youth. God had been good. The world had been tolerant; his fellow-men—at least those who knew the real Isaac—loyally appreciative. The knowledge of his honours and fame stirred him to his soul. Not that he was any better, or abler, he meditated, than other men, but that when "opportunity" offered he was permitted to grasp it.

"For every day I stand outside your door, And bid you wake and rise to fight and win."

The influence of the great truth as pronounced in the now familiar couplet inspired him. He recognized the source whence he derived whatever of success had followed his efforts, and prayed for greater sagacity, more vigour of body and tenacity of purpose, a complete surrender of self to the task before him; that if his life was to be the price of duty, he might place it on the altar of his country without one shred of compunction.

* * * * *

He rang the bell for Porter—his body-servant since Dobson's death—directed him to see that the council room was lighted, that pens, ink, paper and cigars were in place, as a meeting of his staff was slated for nine, and sought his sanctum.



CHAPTER XXIV.

BROCK'S LAST COUNCIL.

It was long past midnight on the morning of Tuesday, October 13th, 1812, when Brock dismissed his advisory council of staff officers. An animated discussion had taken place over the strength of the enemy and the spot he might select to cross the river, for ruses had been resorted to by Van Bensselaer to deceive the British.

"I dare not, gentlemen," said our hero, in opening the debate, "weaken my flanks at Niagara and Erie, though I realize I am leaving Queenston not properly protected. I have just learned that General Dearborn states that while 'Tippecanoe' Harrison invades Canada, at Detroit, with 7,000 men—I do not think it necessary I should point out Detroit on the map," he added with a smile—"and while a United States squadron—not a British one, mark you—sweeps Lake Ontario from Sackett's Harbour, Dearborn himself will threaten Montreal from Lake Champlain. While the east and the west are thus being annexed by the enemy, our friend Van Rensselaer is to entertain us here.

"An ordinary boat, as we all know, can be rowed across the river at Queenston in less than ten minutes. Our spies have reported that forty batteaux, to carry forty men each, are in readiness at Tonawanda. Evans and Macdonell, when they called on Van Rensselaer, saw at least a dozen boats moored at Lewiston, some of which could carry eighty men. During the deplorable armistice, as General Sheaffe is aware"—looking at that officer—"Van Rensselaer brought up 400 boats and batteaux from Ogdensburg and other points, all of his previously blockaded fleet, so the enemy has no lack of transport. The most effective disposition of our limited force is, I admit, somewhat of a problem. There is no use in evading the fact that in point of numbers and ordnance we are too weak, and as Sir George Prevost has written me not to expect any further aid, Colonel Talbot must send us a few of his militia."

"Macdonell," he said, turning to his aide, "will you write at once, to-night, to Colonel Talbot, at Port Talbot, stating that I am strongly induced to believe I will soon be attacked, and tell him that I wish him to send 200 men, the militia under his command, without delay, by water to Fort Erie."

This was Brock's last official letter dictated in council.

"General Sheaffe," he said, addressing that officer, "you, perhaps, know better than any of us the particulars of Van Rensselaer's appointment. It seems that he is an amateur soldier, pitchforked into command against his own will, a victim of New York State politics. While this is probably so, we must not run away with the idea that his other officers are no better, for, besides Generals Dearborn and Wadsworth—both soldiers of national repute—his cousin, Colonel Solomon Van Rensselaer, his chief of staff, is a first-class soldier, a proved fighting man. The latter is reported to be at the head of 750 well-trained militia, 300 of whom are selected soldiers, and fifty are said to know every inch of the river. Our spies report the enemy could ferry 1,500 regulars across in seven trips.

"The safety of our redan on the Heights has given me some concern, but Dennis, Williams and others report that the height is inaccessible from the river side. If an attack in force is made at Queenston, we will have to concentrate every available man there—at the risk of weakening our flanks. Lewiston, as you have seen, is white with tents. At Fort Gray the enemy has two twenty-four-pounders, waiting to silence our eighteen-pounder in the redan. The Americans have several mortars and six-pounders on the river bank below Lewiston, ready to ship to any point by boats specially equipped, or to cover the landing of their troops on our side of the river, and to drive us back if we attempt to dispute their passage."

In district general orders prepared that night, the last official document signed by General Sir Isaac Brock, he directed, "in view of the imminence of hostilities, that no further communication be held with the enemy by flag of truce, or otherwise, unless by his special permission."

"I cannot allow looting," he said. "Arms and other property taken from the enemy are to be at all times reserved for the public service." Brock's example might have been followed to advantage in later Canadian campaigns. "I am calling," he continued, "a district court-martial for nine o'clock to-morrow morning, October 13th, for the trial of three prisoners, a captain and two subalterns of the 49th and 41st regiments."

That court-martial was not held.

On the day before, Major Evans and Colonel Macdonell had waited upon Van Rensselaer, with a letter from Brock proposing "an exchange of prisoners of war, to be returned immediately, on parole." The fact of no reply having been received to this, Brock regarded as ominous.

"I firmly believe, gentlemen," he proceeded, and his confidence and courage was infectious, "that I could at this moment, by a sudden dash, sweep everything before me between Fort Niagara and Buffalo, but our success would be transient. Disaffection and desertion is rife in the American camp. Only the other day we saw six poor fellows perish in mid-stream. To-day more deserters swam the river safely. Our own force, estimating even 200 Indians under Chief Brant and Captain Norton, though I expect less than 100 would be nearer the mark, cannot exceed 1,500 men of all arms. These units I have collected from Sandwich to Kingston. Many of our men, as no one knows better than Quartermaster Nichol, have received no pay, are wearing broken shoes—some have no shoes at all—no tents and little bedding. It is true that they bear the cold and wet with an admirable and truly happy content that excites my admiration, but it is no less a disgrace to the responsible authorities. Sir George Prevost, as you know, has told me 'not to expect any further aid'—the old parrot cry from headquarters, 'Not a man to spare.' Let me ask the chief of the Mohawks, who is present, how many warriors he can muster?"

John Brant, or Thayendanegea, as he was known among the Six Nation Indians, was the hereditary chief. At this time he was but a youth of eighteen—a graceful, dauntless stripling, of surprising activity, and well educated. At his side sat Captain Jacobs, a swarthy, stalwart brave, famous for his immense strength, and Captain John Norton, an Englishman, and chief by adoption only, who, in consideration of Brant's youth, was acting as his deputy and spokesman. The latter said that since his return from Moraviantown, and the hunting season having commenced, many of his braves were absent, but he would pledge the Mohawks would muster, when wanted, over one hundred tried men. Thanking the chiefs for their assurances, Brock continued:

"The enemy has an army of over 6,000. The four twelve-pounders and two hundred muskets captured with the Detroit is a serious loss to us. If the Detroit is lost to us, however, she is of no further use to the enemy. We are, I repeat, greatly outweighted and outnumbered by the enemy, both in siege guns and artillery, and have no forge for heating shot. I have, as a matter of form, written this day to Sir George Prevost, restating my anxiety to increase our militia to 2,000 men, but pointing out the difficulties I shall encounter, and the fear that I shall not be able to effect my object with willing, well-disposed characters. Of one thing, gentlemen, I am convinced, that were it not for the number of Americans in our ranks we might defy all the efforts of the enemy against this part of the Province.

"As to 'forbearance,' which I am constantly urged by Sir George Prevost to adopt, you are entitled to my views. While forbearance may be productive of some good, I gravely doubt the wisdom of such a policy; but, let me add, I may not, perhaps, have the means of judging correctly. We cannot, however, disguise the fact we are standing alongside a loaded mine. Let us be prepared for the explosion. It may come at any moment. Vigilance, readiness and promptness must be our watchwords. Might I ask you to remember my family motto, 'He who guards never sleeps.' Even to-morrow may bring surprises—such stormy weather as we are having seems strangely suitable for covering an attack.

"I think, gentlemen, if we weigh well the character of our enemy, we shall find him disposed to brave the impediments of nature—when they afford him a probability of gaining his end by surprise, in preference to the certainty of meeting British troops ready formed for his reception. But do not, because we were successful at Detroit in stampeding the United States troops, cherish the impression that General Hull is a sample of American soldiery. If we are taken by surprise the attack will soon be known, for our range of beacons extends from the Sugar Loaf to Queenston, from Lundy's Lane to Pelham Heights. Signal guns, also, will announce any suspicious movement. One word in conclusion. As soldiers you know your duty, and I think you now all understand the position we are in—as far as I know it.

"General Sheaffe," he continued, turning to that officer, "I am much concerned as to the fate of this town, Niagara, if its namesake fort on the other side of the river should be tempted to forget the rules of war and bombard the private buildings here with hot-shot. However, we will do our best to give the invaders, when they do come, a warm reception. There are two things, Major," looking towards Evans, his brigade-major and intimate friend, "that our men must not omit to observe, namely, to 'trust God and keep their powder dry,' a most necessary precaution if these storms continue."

* * * * *

It is worthy of note that while Brock was in conference with his staff, expecting invasion any day, General Van Rensselaer, at Lewiston, was writing the subjoined brief historical despatch to his brigadier-general, Smythe:

"Sir,—To-night, October 12th, I shall attack the enemy's batteries on the Heights of Queenston."

* * * * *

The weather was tempestuous. Rain clouds shrouded the Heights of Queenston in a black pall. The wind romped and rioted in the foliage. Brock's estimate of the character of the enemy was a masterly one. Van Rensselaer was about to verify our hero's prediction.



CHAPTER XXV.

THE MIDNIGHT GALLOP.

Well into the half-light of morning, long after the last of his staff, Evans, Glegg and Macdonell, had departed, Brock sat alone at his headquarters at Fort George, writing rapidly.

On the oak mantel, an antique clock chimed the passing of the historic hours, with deep, musical strokes.

Was it presentiment—a clearer understanding that comes to men of active brain and acute perception, during solitary vigil in the silence of night, when, with heart and soul stripped, they stand on the threshold of the great divide—that whispered to this "knight of the sword" his doom? Was it this clearer comprehension that caused our hero to bow his head as a faint message from an unseen messenger reached him? With a sigh of resignation he arose from the unfinished manuscript and passed on to his bedroom.

* * * * *

Boom! Boom! Boom!

* * * * *

A muffled, indistinct roar, a confusion of sounds, aroused the half-conscious sleeper. Brock sprang from his couch, partly dressed.

The antique clock chimed one—two—three!

"Listen," he muttered to himself, "that was not a signal gun. Surely it was the sound of sustained firing." As he unlocked the outer door, opening on the barrack-square, the sky above faintly aglow with the light of warning beacons, the low, steady roll of musketry and louder roar of distant cannon convinced him that this was far more serious than "the war between sentries."

"My good Porter," he said, speaking calmly to his excited servant, who, himself awakened, came rushing to his master, "have Alfred saddled at once while I complete dressing, and inform Major Glegg and Colonel Macdonell that I am off up the river to Queenston."

In another minute Isaac Brock was in the saddle.

As he passed through the gates, thrown open by the sentry, a dragoon, mire from head to foot from furious riding, handed him a despatch announcing that the enemy had landed in force at Queenston. A second later, in response to the pressure of his knees, his horse was carrying our hero at a wild gallop across the common that separated his quarters from the upper village.

Day was near to breaking. The earth steamed from the heavy rain. Passing objects rose out of the dark mists, magnified and spectral.

At the residence of Captain John Powell, Brock reined up. The household was astir, aroused by the ominous roar of artillery carried down by the river from the gorge above. He stayed, without dismounting, long enough to take a cup of coffee brought to him by General Shaw's daughter—a "stirrup cup"—his last. Then, giving his charger the spur, he rode away to death and distinction, tenderly waving a broken good-bye to the sad-eyed woman at the porch. This was his betrothed, who faintly fluttered her kerchief in weeping farewell to the gallant lover she would never see again.

Brushing his eyes and urging his big grey to greater speed, "Master Isaac," eager to reach the scene of trouble, struck across the village, his horse's hoof-beats bringing many a citizen to the door to "God speed him." Some came out to follow him, and many a good wife's face was pressed to the window to watch "The General! God bless and spare him," as he headed his charger for the Queenston Road and Brown's Point. Among the more zealous hastening after Brock were Judge Ralph Clench and a few old half-pay officers of His Majesty's service, who hurried to Queenston to range themselves in the ranks of the volunteers. Others joined as the signal guns and the bells of the church of St. Mark's and the court-house spread the alarm.

His road lay up hill. Seven miles back from the shore of Lake Ontario stretched the height of land, extending west from the river to the head of the lake—a gigantic natural dam, over 300 feet high and twenty miles through; a retaining wall of rock, the greatest original fresh-water barrage in the world.

He paused a moment at Frields to order the militia company there to follow. Close to Brown's Point he met another galloper, S.P. Jarvis, of the York volunteers, who was riding so furiously that he could not check his horse, but shouted as he flew by, "The Americans are crossing the river in force, sir." Jarvis wheeled and overtook the General, who, without reining up, slackened his speed sufficiently to tell the rider not to spare his horse, but to hurry on to Fort George and order General Sheaffe to bring up his entire reserve and let loose Brant's Indian scouts. A mile or so farther on, Jarvis met Colonel Macdonell, in hot pursuit of their beloved commander. The aide, in his haste, had left his sword behind him, and borrowed a less modern sabre from Jarvis, who continued his mad gallop towards Fort George, little thinking he had seen the last of his gallant General and the dashing aide, meeting, a few minutes later, Major Glegg, also riding post haste to overtake the General.

Meanwhile our hero had halted for a moment at Brown's Point, only to learn that Cameron's Toronto company of volunteers had already started, on their own initiative, up the river. Riding hard, he overtook the excited militiamen. Speaking a word to the officer in charge, he wheeled his horse in the direction of the Heights, calling upon the detachment in his well-known voice, and in a way that never failed to exact obedience:

"Now, my men, follow me."

* * * * *

The east showed signs of approaching day, and Brock, only two miles from Queenston, was treated to a spectacle that quickened his pulses. Shells were bursting on the mountain side above the village. The shadows of the dying night were streaked with the light from an incessant fire of small-arms. Grapeshot and musket-balls were ploughing up inky river and grim highland. At Vrooman's battery, on Scott's Point, guarded by Heward's volunteer company from Little York, and some of Hatt's company of the 5th Lincoln militia, a mile from Queenston, the twenty-four-pound shells from the gun, mounted en barbette, which commanded at long range both landings, were leaving behind them furrows of fire in the black gorge. The big gun was pouring a continuous stream of destructive metal upon the American boats that were attempting the passage of the river within the limited zone of its fire.[3]

Fort Gray, above Lewiston, was fairly belching flames, to which the isolated eighteen-pounder on the Queenston redan was roaring an angry and defiant response. Brock's trained ear recognized the wicked barking of the brass six-pounders, under Dennis of the 49th, mingling with the occasional boom, of the twenty-four-pound carronade below the village.

The village of Queenston consisted of a small stone-barracks and twenty or more scattered dwellings in the midst of gardens and orchards. To Brock's right a road from the landing led to St. David's, from which, at almost right angles, an irregular branch roadway wound up the Heights. The adjacent table-land west of the village was dotted with farm-houses, partly surrounded by snake-fences and an occasional stone wall.

Above Vrooman's he was joined by his two aides. Here he met a few men, shockingly torn and bleeding, crawling to the houses for shelter, and quite a number of prisoners, and was told that the enemy was routed. All killed or taken prisoners! Very skeptical, but increasing his speed, our hero rode into the village, and, though stained and splashed with mud from stirrup to cockade, he was recognized, and welcomed by the men of the 49th with a ringing cheer.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] This gun is credited with having fired 160 shots during the engagement.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE ATTACK ON THE REDAN.

Checking his reeking horse for a moment, Brock acknowledged with a smile the salute, saying to the men who had leaped to his side, "Take breath, my good fellows; you will need all you have, and more, in a few minutes," words which evoked much cheering. Then he breasted the rise at a canter, exposed to a galling enfilading fire of artillery, and running the gauntlet of the sniping of some invisible marksmen, reached the redan, half-way to the summit. Here he dismounted, threw his charger's reins to a gunner, and entered the enclosure.

* * * * *

From the loftier elevation of the Heights a still more striking scene confronted him. He saw, in the yellow light, battalion after battalion drawn up in rear of the Lewiston batteries, across the river, only two hundred yards wide at this point, awaiting embarkation. Other soldiers he saw crouching in the batteaux on the river, while an unknown number had already crossed and were in possession of Queenston landing. Round and grape shot from the American batteries were searching the banks and scourging the village, while shells from mortars at short range came singing across the river. He saw a boat with fifteen American soldiers smashed in mid-stream by a six-pounder from Dennis's battery, and watched the mangled bodies drift into the gloom.

* * * * *

Having surveyed the position rapidly, ignorant of the concealed movements of the American troops, Brock at a first glance pronounced the situation favorable.

The crest of the Heights was wooded densely. The leaves still clung to the trees in all the spangled glory of autumn, and the thickets afforded far too safe cover for the American sharpshooters. In answer to his inquiry, Williams, in charge of the light company of the 49th, told him that at least 350 United States regulars and 250 militia must already have been ferried over. In the chilling gray of dawn, four boats, filled with armed men, had been seen crossing the river, which here had a four-mile current. The head of a column had also been seen above the river bank at the Queenston landing. The soldiers from the three batteaux, previously landed below Hamilton's garden, had already been met by Dennis's men, who had killed several and captured others. Later, more boats had come ashore, knocked out of commission by Vrooman's big gun and the six-pounders. Their crews had surrendered. Some of these Brock had met. Many more, however, had landed safely, hidden by the shadows, and were doubtless then awaiting a chance to emerge from ambush.

In answer to Brock's question as to whether there was a chance of the Height being scaled direct from the river, Williams repeated what he had already reported at the council meeting, that the scouts insisted that the Heights could not be climbed from the landing. The cliffs, over three hundred feet high, rose almost vertically from the water, and the denseness of the shrubs, tangle and overhanging trees, anchored in the clefts, rendered it impossible for any but exceptionally active and resolute men, and then only as a forlorn hope, to reach the summit. Projecting ledges of rock also blocked the way. A large body of men had been seen before daybreak stealing across the foot-hills, but had evaded pursuit. He believed they had fled to the Black Swamp, four miles distant.

Seeing that Dennis needed every possible support at the landing, Brock ordered Williams and his men to proceed to his assistance, and on the latter's departure our hero and his aides were left alone with the eight gunners.

* * * * *

The rain was gradually ceasing. Shafts of light from an unseen sun tinged the edges of the smoke-coloured clouds with amber and rose. A few spent musket-balls falling about the enclosure aroused Brock's suspicions. He was watching, from behind the earthen parapet, the flight of the shells discharged by the eighteen-pounder, and, seeing that they burst too soon, turned to the gunner.

"Sergeant, you are misjudging your time and distance; we must not waste powder and shot. Your shells are bursting too soon. Try a longer fuse."

The words were barely out of our hero's mouth when there was a rolling crash of musketry, accompanied by wild shouts, and a shower of bullets flew zipping over their heads. Shooting high is the invariable shortcoming of excited marksmen. A moment later the heads of a large force of American riflemen rose from the rocky ambuscade above and behind them. The next instant the enemy was in full charge, evidently bent on capturing both the General and the redan.

Brock saw that resistance would be madness. To save the gun and escape capture must be the "double event." Seizing a ramrod, he ordered an artilleryman to spike the gun, gave the command to retreat, telling the men to "duck their heads," fearing another discharge, and, leading his horse, followed by Macdonell and Glegg and the firing squad of eight artillerymen, rushed down the slope.

* * * * *

For a clearer understanding of the situation—a better conception even than our hero had when, to escape capture and save the lives of his men, he was compelled to abandon the redan—we must visit Van Rensselaer's camp at Lewiston.



CHAPTER XXVII.

VAN RENSSELAER'S CAMP.

After midnight, on the morning of the 11th, the American general, Van Rensselaer, believing, as he wrote, "that Brock, with all his disposable forces, had left for Detroit," launched from the Lewiston landing, under cover of the pitch darkness, thirteen boats capable of carrying 340 armed men.

To Lieutenant Sims, "the man of the greatest skill in the American service," was entrusted the command. Sims entered the leading boat, and vanished in the gloom. Whether he had taken all the oars with him, as reported, or whether the furious storm and the sight of the whirling black waters had frozen the hearts of the troops, must remain a mystery. The other boats did not follow.

Meanwhile, 350 additional regulars and thirty boats had arrived from Four Mile Creek. Flying artillery came from Fort Niagara, with still more regulars, and part of Smythe's brigade from Buffalo. Troops, as Brock's spies had truly reported, now overflowed the United States army headquarters—three more complete regiments from New York and another from Fort Schlosser. Lewiston bristled with bayonets. The entire expeditionary force was in command of Colonel Solomon Van Rensselaer, a militiaman, between whom and the officers commanding the regular troops much jealousy and great friction existed. Both branches of the service were determined to monopolize whatever credit might ensue. A storm, more furious than ever, prevailed for twenty-eight hours. The men sulked in their tents.

On the night of the 12th, the storm having abated, though the sky was black as ink, added numbers having developed greater courage, Van Rensselaer resolved on another attempt. He secretly notified Brigade-Major Smythe, in command at Buffalo, that in accordance with the letter reproduced in a previous chapter, he would storm the Heights of Queenston that night. With experienced river men as pilots, with picked crews, and protected by the big guns at Fort Gray, 600 men, with two pieces of light artillery, in thirteen boats, in the grim darkness of the morning of the 13th—a sinister coincidence—drew up in silence on the wharf. They comprised the first detachment of 850 regulars and 300 militia, the advance attacking party—"the flower of Wadsworth's army"—embarked to "carry the Heights of Queenston and appal the minds of Canadians."

Let us trace the fulfilling of Van Rensselaer's boast.

The regulars crossed first, almost out of the line of fire of the British batteries, and under cover of six of the enemy's field-guns that completely commanded the Canadian shore. Some of the boats of this flotilla effected, as we know, a landing above the rock, still visible at the water's edge, under the suspension bridge. Here they disembarked their fighting men—the 13th regulars and some artillery—and, under Van Rensselaer, attempted to form. The empty boats recrossed the river to ferry over more soldiers.

* * * * *

A sentry of the 49th—our hero's regiment—overheard voices and tramping of feet. Scenting danger, he ran, without firing, to alarm the main guard.

In a few minutes Dennis advanced upon the landing place with forty-six men of his own company and a few militia, and discharged a murderous volley, leaving Colonel Van Rensselaer, with eight officers and forty-five men, killed or wounded. The enemy retreated to the water's edge for shelter, confused and shivering. The Lewiston batteries at once opened fire on the redan on Queenston Heights. The position of Dennis being thus revealed to Dearborn's gunners, they immediately turned their battery of six field-pieces upon his handful of men, and the position proving untenable, he withdrew to the shelter of the village, on the lip of the hill, still continuing to fire downwards on the invaders.

Vrooman's battery then opened fire, and Crowther brought his two "grasshoppers"—small three-pounders—to sweep the road leading to the river.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

A FOREIGN FLAG FLIES ON THE REDAN.

It was the crackling of the grenadiers' muskets, the bellowing of Vrooman's big gun, the cannonade of the twenty-four-pounders of the Lewiston batteries, the roar of the eighteen-pounder in the British redan, and the streak of crimson light from the long line of beacons which rent the sky from Fort Erie to Pelham Heights, that had wakened the citizens of Niagara and aroused Brock from his brief repose.

Captain Wool, of the 13th U.S. regulars—Van Rensselaer being wounded in six places—hurried his men under the shelter of the overhanging rocks, keeping up an intermittent fire, and waited for reinforcements. For almost two hours this desultory firing continued. With the cessation of the storm and arrival of broad daylight, six more boats attempted to reach the Queenston landing. One boat was sunk by a discharge of grape from Dennis's howitzer; another, with Colonel Fenwick, of the U.S. artillery, was swept below the landing to a cove where, in the attack by Cameron's volunteers that followed, Fenwick, terribly wounded, was, with most of his men, taken prisoner. Another boat drifted under Vrooman's, and was captured there, while others, more fortunate, landed two additional companies of the 13th, forty artillerymen and some militia. The shouts of the fighters and screams of the wounded were heard by the hundreds of spectators who were parading the river bank at Lewiston, all ready to witness "the humiliation of Canada."

General Van Rensselaer had commanded that the "Heights had to be taken." Wool, a gallant soldier, only twenty-three, suffering from a bullet that had passed through both his thighs—no superior officer coming to his support—volunteered for the duty. He expressed his eagerness to make the attempt. Gansfort, a brother officer of Wool's, had been shown by a river guide a narrow, twisting trail, used at times by fishermen, leading to the summit. This he pointed out to Wool as a possible pathway to the Heights, where a force of determined men might gain the rear of the British position. Wool, at the same time, had also been informed that Williams, hitherto on the Heights, had been ordered to descend the hill to assist Dennis—which was Brock's first command on reaching the redan. Followed by Van Rensselaer's aide, who had orders "to shoot every man who faltered," Wool at once commenced the ascent, leaving one hundred of his men to protect the landing.

Picked artillerymen led the way. Concealed by rock and thicket, and unobserved by the British—the trail being regarded as impassable—they reached the hill-top, only thirty yards in rear of the solitary gun in the redan. The noise of their movements was drowned by the crash of the batteries, which reduced Hamilton's stone house to ruins and drove Crowther and his small gun out of range. The shells from the enemy's mortars rained upon the village, and his field-pieces subjected the gardens and orchards of Queenston to a searching inquisition.

On reaching the summit, Wool, when the last straggler had arrived, formed his men, without losing a minute, and emerging from ambush, fired a badly-aimed volley at the astonished Brock and his eight gunners, and with a wild shout rushed down upon the redan.

* * * * *

When the United States flag was raised over the gun, which Wool, to his deep chagrin, found spiked, the troops at Lewiston realized that the battery had been taken. Their courage returning, they rushed to the boats below, hoping to participate in a victory which, while hitherto a question in their minds, now seemed beyond all doubt.

Brock, on regaining the bottom of the slope, seeing that the main attack was to be made at Queenston, sent Captain Derenzy with a despatch to Sheaffe at Fort George.

"Instruct Major Evans," he wrote, "to turn every available gun on Fort Niagara, silence its batteries, and drive out the enemy, for I require every fighting man here; and if you have not already done so, forward the battalion companies of the 41st and the flank companies of militia, and join me without delay."

Mounting his horse, he galloped to the far end of the village. Here he held a hurried consultation with the few officers present, and despatched Macdonell to Vrooman's to bring up Heward's Little York volunteers at the double. He then instructed Glegg to order Dennis, with the light company of the 49th, less than fifty strong, and Chisholm's company of the York militia, to join him, and also to recall Williams and his detachment. When these arrived he took command.

"Captain Williams," said he, "how many men do you muster?"

"Seventy, sir, of all ranks," replied Williams; "forty-nine grenadiers and Captain Chisholm's company of volunteers."

"We must make the attempt, then," said the General, "to turn the enemy's left flank on the Heights, and this can only be done by a round-about way." Then, as Dennis joined him, he said, with a shade of vexation on his face, "It is a waste of time lamenting mistakes, but the overlooking of that pathway was a serious thing. The re-taking of the redan must be attempted at all hazards. It is the key, you see, to our position. If we wait for all our reinforcements the task will only be greater, as it will give the enemy time to establish himself in force, and when he drills out the spiked gun, the odds against us will be greater still."

Then, after a pause, "We must try and regain that gun without a moment's delay. It will be hot work, and means a sacrifice, but it is clearly our duty. Macdonell cannot be long. How are your men?"

"Somewhat fagged, sir," replied Dennis, "and a bit hippish. We've had a trying time, but they are ready to follow you."

* * * * *

It has been truly said of Isaac Brock that he never allowed a thought of self-preservation or self-interest to affect for one instant his conception of duty. He was blind at this moment to all personal considerations. He made no effort to shelter himself behind any plausible excuse that would have been gratefully seized by the timid or calculating man, or to fence with his duty. His consistency was sublime. "His last moments were in clear keeping with his life and his belief."

"He who thinks In strife To earn a deathless fame, Must do, nor ever care for life."

The little band of heroes fell into line, while their brother hero addressed them.

"Men of the 49th," said Brock, "and my brave volunteers, I have heard of your work this morning, and the trying circumstances under which you have been fighting. Now, my lads, as you know, a large body of the enemy has stolen a march on us. They have taken our gun, it is true, but they will find it spiked! It is our duty to re-take it. Be prepared for slippery footing. Use every bit of shelter, but when we make the final rush give the enemy no time to think. Pour in a volley; fire low, and when it comes to in-fighting, use the bayonet resolutely and you have them beaten. I know I can depend upon you.... There is a foreign flag flying over a British gun. It must not stay there.... Don't cheer now, men, but save your breath and follow me."

* * * * *

There was a cheer, notwithstanding.



CHAPTER XXIX.

THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.

While these fateful and stirring scenes were being enacted at Queenston, a despatch rider arrived from Evans of Fort George. Without waiting for further instructions, he had, after Brock's departure, with the first glimpse of daylight, cannonaded Fort Niagara. This he did with typical thoroughness. His fire was returned with interest. With a license in direct opposition to the laws of battle, the enemy, under Captain Leonard, turned his guns on the village of Newark, bombarding public buildings and private residences with hot-shot, laying part of the town in ashes. This infuriated Evans, and he renewed the siege with so much vigour that he compelled the American garrison to evacuate. A shot from one of his twelve-pounders burst within the centre of Fort Niagara and decided Leonard to abandon his position in haste, after suffering many casualties.

* * * * *

Under a nasty crackle of musketry, galling and accurate, which harried the men, already chilled and strung up with suspense, the small detachment following the courageous Brock from the lower village soon reached the stone walls that surrounded a residence at the base of the hill. Here our hero dismounted, handed his horse to an orderly, and directed the men to find shelter. A moment later, taking advantage of a lull in the firing, he vaulted over the wall, and waving his sword above his head, shouted to the grenadiers a word of encouragement. They answered with a cheer, still following him as he led the way up the steep ascent towards the captured battery.

Wool, within the enclosure of the redan, was closely watching the steady advance of the small body of resolute men breasting the Height.

The purpose of these men was unmistakable. As they drew closer, scarlet uniform and polished bayonet blazed and flashed in the sunshine. Having been heavily reinforced, he detached a party of 150 picked regulars, and with these moved out to meet the small band of British led by Brock. A brief exchange of shots took place, and the Americans fell back, firing.

Though the rain had ceased the trees were gemmed with drops that still dripped. The ground was strewn with wet leaves, slippery, and affording treacherous foothold. Progress was slow and laborious. As the hillside grew steeper, a man here and there slid, lurched and fell. To maintain any semblance of formation was impossible. The fire grew hotter. Ball and buckshot and half-ounce bullets down-poured on them from above. "Death crouched behind every rock and lurked in every hollow."

Had Brock's handful of loyalists been able to rush headlong, spurred by lust of conflict, and lock bayonets with the enemy, another tale might have been told. But the effect of the futile struggle for foothold on the hillside, seamed with slippery depressions, in the teeth of a blizzard of lead, soon showed. The bullet-swept ascent was a cruel test for men already fagged and faint. As for our hero, though storm-beaten, stained with mud, and hungry as a wolf, he was still the same indomitable youth who had scaled the cut cliffs of Cobo in search of seagulls' eggs. His vigour and disregard of danger were magnificent. His example, splendid.

Brock may not have been judicially precautious. Had he waited for reinforcements—there were none nearer than Fort George—his own life might possibly have been preserved. As an alternative he could perhaps have withdrawn and sought shelter in the village. But—apart from the peril to his own prestige—who would care to estimate the ulterior effect upon his men if such an example had been set them? These rough Canadian irregulars consisted, as they do to-day, of the finest fighting material in the world. The law of self-preservation had no place in the litany of Isaac Brock. He was a daily dealer in self-sacrifice. Besides, this was not the time or place to calculate involved issues. He was not a cold-blooded politician, nor was he an opportunist; he was merely a patriot and a soldier fighting for hearth and home, for flag and country. It was not an issue that could be left to arbitration in the hereafter, or threshed out by judge and jury. The situation called for instant action. To do his obvious duty rather than to know it, seemed to our hero the only honorable exit from the dilemma, even though it resulted in his own undoing.

Not until the dead are mustered by the God of hosts—at the last roll-call—will this noble soldier's conception of duty and his sacrifice be truly appraised.

God and the right was carved deep in the heart of Isaac Brock. Though he felt for his men, it was in a compassionate, not a weak way. War without bloodshed was inconceivable. He had been trained in an age and in a school that regarded blood-shedding in the protection of the right as wholly justifiable, as it was inevitable. Is there any change in respect to the application of this doctrine to-day? For himself he had no compassion whatever. His faith in the cause compelled him to fight to a finish. He was not of the potter's common clay of which fatalists are made. How many of these faithful fellows, he wondered, as his alert mind rapidly reviewed the present and recalled the past—Canadian and Celt, Irish and Anglo-Saxon, Protestant and Catholic, whom "neither politics, sect or creed could, in such a crisis, keep apart"—would leave their bodies to bleach on that hill-side? How many of them were destined to yield their lives for honour's sake, to die with their valour unrecorded in the defence—in the case of numbers of them—not of their own, but of their brother's rights?

* * * * *

The next second he was wondering what was doing at St. Peter's Port or London. It would be noon there. Were the good brothers and sister thinking of "Master Isaac" at that moment? Then, swifter than light, he was at Niagara, and the bowed figure of a woman at a porch, with pale, upturned face, who that morning had bade him a silent farewell, rose before him—surely it was years ago—the woman to whom he was betrothed. Then, in a flash, he turned to see some wavering figures around him, some of his own men—not a few wounded—who faltered and shrank from the screaming buckshot, and dropped to the rear.

The soldier awoke.

"This is the first time," he shouted, "I have ever seen the 49th turn their backs! Surely the heroes of Egmont will never tarnish their record!"

* * * * *

The rebuke stung. The panting ranks closed up.



CHAPTER XXX.

THE DEATH OF ISAAC BROCK.

At this moment Colonel Macdonell, excited and eager to participate, reached the foot of the mountain at the head of the supports for which the General had despatched him. These consisted of about thirty of Heward's flank company of militia and thirty of the 49th—almost breathless and much exhausted, having run most of the way. Brock's small force—those actually at his side—were Chisholm's and Cameron's companies of the Toronto and York volunteers—a mere handful of perhaps eighty all told. These, together with Macdonell's men, who were at the foot of the hill on the right, now numbered less than 190 of all ranks.

For an instant there was a pause. Brock spoke hurriedly to his aide.

"If Williams and Macdonell can but outflank the Americans on the summit and scale the mountain in rear of the redan on the right, nothing can prevent our driving them out. Our place is here."

"But, General," interposed his aide, who worshipped his commanding officer, "I pray you, let me lead, or at least do take proper precautions. If you are wounded, think what may befall us."

"Master Glegg," hurriedly replied Brock, "I must remain at the head of these men. Duty and desire compel me. Should I fall, there are others not less competent."

A half smile, a touch of the arm, and the two men separated. A long separation.

* * * * *

Deceived by the scarlet uniforms of the militia flank companies, Wool believed that the attacking party was composed exclusively of regulars, so steady was their advance. His own force now consisted of 500 men, over 300 of whom were regulars. Notwithstanding his much greater strength and vastly superior position, being protected by artificial brush-shelters and logs, and the withering fire with which he met the dogged progress of the British, his flanks, pressed by Williams and Macdonell, began to shrink. The moment was a critical one for our hero.

The supreme effort must be made.

Glancing below, Brock, even at that instant, for a fleeting moment was conscious of the beauty of the country spread beneath him. Almost as far as eye could reach extended an immense, partly pastoral plain, studded with villages, groves, winding streams, cultivated farms, orchards, vineyards and meadows. In places a dense forest, decorated with autumn's mellow tints, and furrowed by the black gorge of the Niagara, stretched to the horizon. Across all, shadows of racing clouds gave emphasis to the brilliant flood of sunshine. No fairer scene ever greeted the eye of man. The entire landscape breathed peace. Above it, however, in detached masses, hung lurid billows—the smoke of battle.... The serene vision faded, and in its place, in brutal contrast, came cruel, imperious bugle calls, the metallic rattle of fire-arms, the deep thunder of artillery, the curdling cry of wounded men.

Isaac's senses were insulted by the carnage of war.

* * * * *

He now noticed that the supports, led by his plucky aide at the foot of the hill, were flagging. He shouted back, "Push on, York Volunteers!"

Our hero's robust figure was a conspicuous object for the American riflemen. While telling his men to take advantage of every bit of shelter, he paid little attention to himself. His uniform, his position at the head of his men, his loud words of command, stamped him a man of mark, a soldier of distinction, a special target for Wool's sharpshooters.

* * * * *

So far he had escaped the hail of shot by a miracle. Picking his footsteps—it was treadmill work—he sprang forward, urging on his men by word and gesture.

* * * * *

A deflected bullet struck the wrist of his sword arm. The wound was slight. He again waved his sword, smiling his indifference and still speaking words of encouragement.

* * * * *

They were getting at close quarters now. The redan was less than fifty yards above.

He was calling to those nearest him to hold their fire a moment, to prepare to rush the enemy and use their bayonets, when, from a thorn thicket, an Ohio scout, Wilklow by name, one of Moseley's riflemen, stepped forward, and, singling out his victim, deliberately aimed at the General. Several of the 49th, noticing the man's movement, fired—but too late. The rifleman's bullet entered our hero's right breast, tore through his body on the left side, close to his heart, leaving a gaping wound.

* * * * *



Brock sank slowly to the ground, quite sensible of his grievous fate. A grenadier, horribly mutilated, fell across him. To those who ran to aid our hero, anxious to know the nature of his injury, he murmured a few broken sentences and—turned to die.

He tried to frame messages to loved ones, and then, more audibly, as he gallantly strove to raise his head to give emphasis to his last faltering words—the same Isaac Brock, unmindful of self and still mindful of duty—he said, "My fall must not be noticed, nor impede my brave companions from advancing to victory."

And with a sigh—expired.

* * * * *

Thus died General Sir Isaac Brock, defender and saviour of Upper Canada. Died the death he would have selected, the most splendid death of all—that of the hero in the hour of victory, fighting for King and country, for you and me, and with his face to the foe.

* * * * *

Our hero had passed his last milestone.

* * * * *

For a brief space the body of Isaac Brock rested where it had fallen, about one hundred yards west of the road that leads through Queenston, and a little eastward of an aged thorn bush.

* * * * *

Above the dead soldier's head, clouds, sunshine and rustling foliage; beneath it, fallen forest leaves, moist and fragrant. About the motionless body swayed tussocks of tall grass and the trampled heads of wild-flowers. The shouts of the regulars, the clamor of the militia, the shrill war-cry of the Mohawks, and the organ notes of battle, were his requiem. Then the corpse was hurriedly borne by a few grief-stricken men of the 49th to a house in the village, occupied by Laura Secord—the future heroine of Lundy's Lane—where, concealed by blankets—owing to the presence of the enemy—it was allowed to remain for some hours, unvisited.

* * * * *

Later in the day Major Glegg, Brock's faithful aide—the brave Macdonell, in extreme agony, lay dying of his wounds—hastened to the spot, and finding the body of his lamented friend undisturbed, conveyed it to Niagara, "where it was bedewed by weeping friends whose hearts were agonized with bitterest sorrow."



SUPPLEMENT



AFTER BROCK'S DEATH.

The "Story of Isaac Brock" would be incomplete without an epitome of the events that terminated the Battle of Queenston Heights and resulted in an overwhelming victory for the British.

General Brock was killed in action at about half-past seven on the morning of October 13th, 1812. His body was removed from Government House, Niagara, to a cavalier bastion at Fort George, for final sepulture. This bastion was selected by Major Glegg, it being the one which Brock's own genius had lately suggested—the one from which the range of an observer's vision covered the principal points of approach—and had just been finished under his daily superintendence.

After he fell, the handful of men who were with him, overcome by his tragic end, overwhelmed by superior numbers and a hurricane of buckshot and bullets, wavered, and though Dennis attempted to rally them, fell back and retreated to the far end of Queenston village. Here, about two hours later, Colonel Macdonell, Brock's aide, collected and reformed the scattered units, and made another bold dash to rescale the heights and retake the redan. A detailed account of the incidents that followed in dramatic succession would fill a book.

With the cry of "Revenge the General!" from the men of the 49th, Macdonell, on Brock's charger, led the forlorn attack, supported by Dennis. At the same moment, Williams, with his detachment, emerged from the thicket, shouting to his men, "Feel firmly to the right, my lads; advance steadily, charge them home, and they cannot stand you." The two detachments then combined, and Macdonell ordering a general advance, they once more breasted the ascent.

The enemy, over four hundred strong, but without proper formation, fired an independent volley at the British as they approached to within thirty yards of the redoubt. This was responded to with vigour, and grenadiers and volunteers, in response to brave Macdonell's repeated calls, charged fiercely on Wool's men, now huddled in disorder around the eighteen-pounder. Some of them started to run towards the river bank. One American officer, Ogilvie, of the 13th regulars, thinking the situation hopeless, raised his handkerchief on his sword-point in token of surrender. Wool, a soldier of different calibre, tore it down, and a company of United States infantry coming at that moment to his assistance, he rallied his men.

The momentary advantage gained by Macdonell's small band of heroes was lost, and in the exchange of shots that followed, Macdonell's horse—Brock's charger—was killed under him while he—his uniform torn with bullets—was thrown from the saddle as the animal plunged in its death struggle—receiving several ghastly bullet wounds, from which he died the following day, after enduring much agony. Williams, a moment later, fell desperately wounded; Dennis, suffering from a severe head wound, at first refused to quit the field, but Cameron having removed the sorely-stricken Macdonell, and Williams having recovered consciousness and escaped, the dispirited men fell back, retreated down the mountain at Parrott's Tavern, retiring upon Vrooman's battery. Here they awaited, unmolested, until two in the afternoon, the arrival of reinforcements from Fort George. The fight, though short, had been furious and deadly. Americans and British alike were glad to take breath.

Meanwhile, unobserved, young Brant, with 120 Mohawk Indians, had scaled the mountain, east of St. David's, outflanking the Americans, and hemmed them in until Captains Derenzy, of the 41st, and Holcroft, of the Artillery, arrived with the car-brigade from Fort George and trained two field-guns and a howitzer upon the landing. Merritt, with a troop of mounted infantry, at the same time reached the village by the Queenston road. This movement, which was a ruse, deceived the enemy, who at once redisposed his troops in readiness for an attack from this new quarter.

The American commander was ignorant of the fact that General Sheaffe—with four companies of the 41st, 308 strong, the same number of militia, and a company of negro troops from Niagara, refugee slaves from the United States—was at that moment approaching his rear in the rear of the Indians. The British advanced in crescent-shaped formation, hidden by mountain and bush, and were shortly joined by a few more regulars and by two flank companies of the 2nd regiment of militia from Chippewa. Indeed, many persons of all ranks of life, even veterans exempt by age, seized their muskets and joined the column to repel the invaders, "unappalled" by Dearborn's threats of conquest or by the death of their "beloved hero, Isaac Brock." By this movement the British escaped the enfilading fire of the Lewiston batteries, the steep ascent of the heights in the teeth of the enemy's field-works, and compelled him to change front. The British of all ranks numbered less than one thousand.



The United States troops, which had been heavily reinforced, consisted at this time of about one thousand fighting men, on and about the mountain. This number was slowly supplemented by fresh arrivals from Lewiston, encouraged when they saw the American flag planted on the redan. The wounded were sent across the river. Nearly all of the new arrivals were regulars. Colonel Winfield Scott, of Mexican fame, a tried soldier, six feet four in his stockings, was now in command, supported by a second field-piece and many sharp-shooters. Van Rensselaer, narrowly escaping capture, had retreated by boat to Lewiston, ostensibly to bring over more troops. Finding the conditions unfavourable, he did not do so, but sent over General Wadsworth, as a vicarious sacrifice, to take command. The gun in the redan had been unspiked, and the summit strongly entrenched, but as Scott's men betrayed strange lukewarmness, orders were given "to shoot any man leaving his post."

Sheaffe's men having rested after their forced tramp, a few spherical case-shot by Holcroft drove out the American riflemen. His gunners had at last silenced the Lewiston batteries, and finding the river range, sunk almost every boat that attempted to cross. The Indians were now ordered to drive in the enemy's pickets slowly. Scouting the woods, they routed his outposts.

About four p.m. Captain Bullock, with two flank companies of militia and 150 men of the 41st, advanced, and after firing a volley in the face of a dense smoke, charged the enemy's right, which broke in great confusion. A general advance was ordered, and, with wild warwhoops by the Indians and white men, the heights were rushed, Wadsworth's veterans were stampeded, the redan retaken at the point of the bayonet, and Scott's command forced to the scarp of the cliff overhanging the river.

The American soldiers, to quote United States historians, now "fled like sheep," and scuttled off in all directions. Some raced headlong down the main road, seeking shelter under the muzzles of Holcroft's guns; some sought refuge in the houses; others raced to the landing only to find the boats no longer there. Not a few, hot pressed by Brant's avenging Mohawks, threw themselves over the precipice, preferring suicide to the redman's tomahawk. Others plunged into the Niagara, essaying to swim its irresistible eddies, only to be blown out of the green water by Holcroft's grapeshot or sucked down by the river's silent whirlpools.

One boat, with fifty struggling refugees, sank with its entire crew. Two others similarly laden were beached below the village, with only one dozen out of one hundred souls still living. The river presented a shocking scene. On the face of the water men, many maimed and wounded, fought and struggled for survival. This pitiful spectacle was actually taking place under the eyes of several thousands of American soldiers on the Lewiston bank, who, almost impossible to believe, and to their lasting disgrace, refused to join, or attempt even to succour, their comrades—deaf to all entreaty—allowing them to perish. Every room and shack at Queenston was an improvised hospital or morgue, filled with the mangled bodies of the quick and dead.

Cruikshank says 120 wounded United States officers and men were taken, of whom thirty died at hospital in Queenston and Niagara, while 140 more were ferried across to Lewiston. Lossing, the American historian, solemnly records the "fact" that "less than 600 American troops of all ranks ever landed at Queenston," and that "of these only 300 were overpowered"—some of the United States histories of the colonial wars need drastic revision—yet 958 American soldiers were taken prisoners by the British; "captured by a force," so officially wrote Colonel Van Rensselaer, after the battle, "amounting to only about one-third of the united number of the American troops." Captain Gist, of the U.S. army, placed their own killed at 400.

Among those who, when defeat was certain, fled to the water's edge, after fighting valiantly, was Colonel Winfield Scott, General Wadsworth, and other United States officers. Pursued by the Indians, they lowered themselves from shrub to shrub. When escape was hopeless, Scott tied the white cravat of his comrade, Totten, on his sword point, and with another officer, Gibson, was hurrying to present this flag of truce, when two Indians confronted them on the narrow trail. Jacobs, Brant's powerful follower, wrenched Scott's sword away, hatchets were drawn, and had not a British grenadier sergeant rushed forward, Winfield Scott would have fared badly.

General Van Rensselaer's defeat was complete and disastrous. His chagrin at his failure "to appal the minds of the Canadians" was so great that ten days later he resigned his command.

The account between Canada and the United States at sundown on that day stood as follows: Total American force engaged, 1,600. Killed and wounded, or sent back across the river, during the fight, 500. Prisoners, 73 officers, including two generals and five colonels, together with 852 rank and file. Total loss, 1,425 men, besides the colours of the New York regiment, one six-pounder, 815 carbines and bayonets, and 5,950 rounds of ball and buckshot.

The total British force engaged was 1,000. Of these 800 were regulars and militia, and 200 Indians. Killed, 14, including one major-general and one aide. Wounded and missing, 96. Total American loss, 1,425. Total British loss, 110. The next day the British General, Sheaffe, Isaac Brock's successor, signed another armistice. The second armistice within a period of nine weeks!

Such is the story of the Battle of Queenston Heights.



SUBSEQUENT EVENTS OF THE CAMPAIGN OF 1812.

After Van Rensselaer resigned his command in favour of Brigadier-General Smyth, the effect of the British victory upon the United States troops at Lewiston was beyond belief. While the British soldiers were, with characteristic indifference, hard at work at Fort George cutting wood and threshing straw, the American soldiers across the river, according to their own historians, were deserting by the hundreds. Of General Tannehill's brigade of 1,414 of all ranks, 1,147 deserted within a few days. Twenty of these were officers.

Had the British been allowed to profit by this demoralization of the enemy and followed up their brilliant successes, they could, as Brock predicted, have swept the frontier from Chippewa to Sackett's Harbour, and probably prevented a continuance of the two years' war. The Sheaffe-Prevost inexcusable thirty days' truce was the very respite the enemy had prayed for. More men and more munitions were hurriedly despatched to all the United States frontier forts, and renewed courage imparted to some of the commanders and their hesitating brigades. The first to waken up after the expiration of this, to the Americans, merciful truce, was General Dearborn, who, with 2,000 men, attacked Odelltown, only to be driven back to Lake Champlain by de Salaberry. This reverse was followed in the last days of November by an attack by General Smyth, with 400 of his 4,300 men, upon a four-gun battery, defended by sixty-five men, above Garden Island, on the Niagara River. Elated with his success, he took for his rallying cry, "The cannon lost at Detroit—or death!" and again crossed the river with thirty-two boats and 900 men, and descended upon Fort Erie. Meanwhile, Colonel Bisshopp had retaken the fort, with its American captors, and with a handful of regulars and militia awaited "annihilation." As Smyth's flotilla advanced, Bisshopp poured in a hot fire, sinking two boats. This reception did not accord with Smyth's views of the ethics of war, and forgetting all about the "lost guns," and disliking, upon reflection, the idea of "death," he at once turned tail. At Buffalo he was publicly pelted by the populace, and for his cowardice was dismissed the service by the United States Senate without the formality of a trial. Dearborn—strange to say—having for the time lost his taste for fighting, went into winter quarters, and Canada, in universal mourning for Brock, but still confident and undaunted, rested on her arms. The year 1812 closed without further incident.

The period thus ended had been a momentous one. Brilliant reputations had been made and lost. The blood of many patriots had flowed freely, but, as regarded Canada, not in vain, for, in the words of the American historian, Schouler, "the war had impressed upon the people of the Republic the fact that Canada could not be carried by dash, nor pierced by an army officered by political generals and the invincibles of peace."



THE CAMPAIGN OF 1813.

Though it would be quite natural to suppose that the story of Isaac Brock would end with his death and the victory of Queenston Heights, it is well to remember that the influence of his triumphs only ceased with the close of the war and the Treaty of Ghent, in December, 1814. Hence a resume of the events that occurred during 1813 and 1814 is necessary, if a just valuation of our hero's achievements is desired.

Between July, 1812 and November 5th, 1814, "twelve distinct invasions of Canada by superior forces of the enemy were defeated." Out of fifty-six military and naval engagements between the British and U.S. forces, thirty-six were won by the British. Though the victories of 1812 were the direct factors that brought about a change in the national destiny of Canada, "Queenston Heights was not the culminating feat of arms." As a result of brooding over these disasters that had befallen the "Grand Army of the West," and the "national disgrace" of overwhelming defeat, the people of the United States, as a whole, independent of politics, "were now"—so write American chroniclers—"compelled to become belligerents."

In consequence of this national thirst for revenge, Generals Harrison and Winchester started to look for trouble in January, 1813, and—were rewarded. Strongly stockaded at Frenchtown, on the Raisin River, with a seasoned army, they invited attack. Colonel Procter, with 500 soldiers and 800 Indians under Roundhead, accepted the challenge, and making a furious attack upon Winchester before daybreak, took the General and 405 of his "Grand Army" prisoners. Brockville was then raided, and fifty-two citizens kidnapped by the U.S. soldiers. During the next two years raids of this nature were of frequent occurrence, first by one belligerent, then by the other, and with varying success. Major Macdonald's capture of Ogdensburg, when he took eleven guns and 500 U.S. soldiers, was the next big win for Canada.

In April, to balance the account, General Pike descended upon York. The capital of Upper Canada at that time had a population of only 1,000, and was weakly garrisoned. While the enemy was advancing upon the small fort to the west of the village, a powder magazine exploded, killing many on both sides. General Sheaffe, thoroughly alarmed at the prospect, destroyed his stores, and, after 300 of his force had been captured, retreated with the remainder to Kingston—for which he was severely censured—and York surrendered. Then Procter, inflated by his victory at Frenchtown, and overrating his military skill, attacked Fort Meigs, on the Maumee River, was badly repulsed, and hopelessly lost all prestige.

This defeat of the British was followed by Dearborn's assault upon Fort George. With 7,000 men behind him, aided by the guns of Chauncey's fleet at the river mouth, he captured the time-worn fortification, and the Niagara frontier—despite the dogged resistance of General Vincent, who had to retreat with the crippled remnant of his 1,400 men—was at last in the possession of the enemy. This win was made more complete by General Prevost's belated and, of course, futile attack upon Sackett's Harbour. When assured success stared him in the face, his flaccid nature suggested retreat, and what might have been a signal victory became a disgraceful failure. The position of affairs at this time was admirably summed up in a letter written by Quartermaster Nichol. "Alas! we are no longer commanded by Isaac Brock.... Confidence seems to have vanished from the land, and gloomy despondency in those who are at our head has taken its place." Brock's courage, judgment, military skill and personal magnetism were never so much needed.

To offset these reverses, the brilliant victory of the British ship Shannon over the American war vessel Chesapeake, in a naval duel fought outside Boston harbour, somewhat restored British complacence. This was the prelude to another victory on land. Vincent, after being bombarded out of Fort George, slowly retreated with his broken command towards Burlington, cleverly flirting with the enemy, and drawing him farther and farther inland, finally reforming his wearied men near Stony Creek, sixteen miles from the lake's head. Here the enemy, 3,000 strong, went into camp. It was here that FitzGibbon—General Brock's old-time sergeant-major and faithful protege—now in command of a company of the 49th, disguised as a settler, penetrated the enemy's camp, and was convinced a night attack would be successful. While the advance guard of the enemy was driving in the British decoy pickets, 800 of Vincent's force, under Harvey, surprised and charged them in the darkness, capturing two American generals, 120 prisoners, and four cannon, without the loss of a man.

Sheaffe was now transferred to Montreal, and De Rottenberg assumed military command in Upper Canada. Three weeks later an American, Colonel Boerstler, was ordered to surprise a small party of British at Beaver Dams (now Thorold). Lieutenant FitzGibbon, in command, was informed of the proposed attack. An heroic woman—Laura Secord—the wife of a wounded militiaman at Queenston, and to whose house Brock's body was borne after he fell, learned of the pending surprise by overhearing a conversation between some American officers. Her resolution was soon formed. Despite the fact that twenty miles through gloomy forest, filled with hostile Indians, lay between her home and the British camp, she tramped the distance unattended, though not unmolested, and reached the Stone House in time to warn the plucky grenadier. The wily Irishman at once despatched a party of Caughnawaga Indians to divert the enemy's attention. Advancing with a few soldiers, and finding Boerstler and his force drawn up in an opening of the woods, uncertain what to do, he boldly ordered that officer to surrender with his entire command of 540 soldiers, though he had but forty-seven men to enforce the conditions. His demand was instantly complied with.

To equalize in part this game of international see-saw, Chauncey again visited York with fourteen ships, mounting 114 guns, and plundered the defenceless capital.

On Lake Erie, Perry, with nine ships and a total broadside of 936 pounds of metal, defeated Barclay's six Canadian ships, with a total broadside of 459 pounds. These facts must be taken into impartial consideration in weighing the issue. In the west, Procter, still suffering from the shock received at Fort Meigs, with 407 troops and 800 Indians, retreated up the Thames valley, neglecting to burn his bridges in his retreat, with General Harrison and an army of 3,500 men in hot pursuit. The American general brought him to bay at Moraviantown, and in the frozen swamps the dispirited British, having lost all confidence in their fleeing commander, surrendered or escaped. It was here that the gallant and high-minded Tecumseh met his death, under distressing circumstances. The story was circulated that, mortified at Procter's proposed flight, the Shawanese chief was only restrained from shooting that officer by the interference of Colonel Elliott. For his conduct and the unexplained disaster at Moraviantown, Procter was court-martialed, severely condemned, and suspended from his command for six months.



The defeat of Procter was counterbalanced, however, by Colonel de Salaberry's dramatic victory over General Hampton. With 350 French Canadian Voltigeurs he hypnotized 3,500 United States troops at Chateauguay. When the fight was hottest the gallant Frenchman ordered his buglers to sound the advance, an alarming fanfare, accompanied by discharges of musketry from various points of the surrounding forest, and the enemy, thinking he was about to be attacked and flanked by superior numbers, was seized with panic, stampeded, and never halted in his retreat until he had placed twenty-five miles of country between him and the "French devils." After this, occurred the historic battle of Chrysler's Farm, on the St. Lawrence, when 2,000 U.S. regulars under General Boyd, with six field-guns, were routed, with a loss of 102 killed and 237 wounded, by a force composed of 380 regulars, militia and Indians, under Colonel Morrison, and driven back into American territory.

In the second week of December, General McClure evacuated Fort George, but before doing so burned 149 of the public buildings and private houses in Newark and Queenston, by order of John Armstrong, U.S. Secretary of War, compelling 400 women and children to seek shelter in the woods, with the thermometer ranging around zero. Even Lossing, the American historian, condemned this as "a wanton act, contrary to the usages of war, and leaving a stain upon the American character." The outrage brought its own punishment within the week. Colonel Murray, with 550 soldiers, captured the United States Fort Niagara, killing sixty-five men and taking 344 prisoners, and before the close of the year, with his heart on fire, the British general, Riall, crossed the river with 500 Indians and sacked Lewiston, Youngstown, Tuscarora and Manchester, only desisting from his excusable incendiarism when he had burned Buffalo and laid Black Rock in ashes. January 1st, 1814, was ushered in with the Cross of St. George floating over the battered ramparts of the American Fort Niagara.

Thus ended the year of our Lord 1813, for ever memorable in North American history as a twelve months of almost incessant warfare, famous for its records of conspicuous courage, much military incompetence, and great and lamentable carnage. A year, notwithstanding its sheaf of blunders, that should be canonized by all true Canadians, for it was a year that emphasized in an astounding manner the pluck and bull-dog tenacity of the Canadian militiaman, disclosing his deep love for country that resisted unto death the lawless attacks of a wanton invader.



THE CAMPAIGN OF 1814.

In March, 1814, General Wilkinson again undertook the forlorn hope of capturing Canada, leading 5,000 men against 350 British, under Hancock, at Lacolle, on Lake Champlain. After five hours of red-hot fighting, he was compelled to fall back on Plattsburg. A month later Admiral Sir James Yeo and General Drummond, with 750 men, landed under the batteries at Oswego, and in the teeth of a sustained fire of cannon and musketry, "gathered in" that historic town and sixty prisoners.

To and fro, like a pendulum, swayed the scene of action—to-day east, to-morrow west. Colonel Campbell and 500 American soldiers, with nothing better to do, made a bonfire of Port Dover, the incident being officially described by the U.S. War Department as "an error of judgment." Then General Brown, backed by an army of 6,000 U.S. veterans, swooped down like "a wolf on the fold" on Fort George, and annexed it and the garrison of 170 men. The British general, Riall, still possessing the fighting mania, and some 1,800 men, locked horns with General Brown and 3,000 of his veterans, and the Battle of Chippewa added another victory to the American record. The enemy then pillaged St. David's, while Riall—both sides having suffered heavily—retreated to the head of Lundy's Lane, a narrow roadway close to the Falls of Niagara, and stood at bay.

Three weeks elapsed, when General Drummond, realizing Riall's danger, hastened from York to his assistance, reaching Lundy's Lane with 800 men at the moment that General Brown, with his reinforced army of over 4,000 men, was within 600 yards of the British outposts. A moment later the contest was on, the bloodiest and probably the most brilliant battle of the whole campaign. It was a bitterly contested fight for seven hours—a death struggle for the survival of the fittest. During the first three hours the British force numbered only 1,640, until reinforced by 1,200 additional combatants. All through the long hours of the black night the battle waged furiously. Charge succeeded charge, followed by the screams of the mutilated and the dead silence of the stricken. Over all boomed the muffled thunders of Niagara. The big guns, almost mouth to mouth, roared crimson destruction. Though bayonets were crossed, and the fighting was hand to hand and desperate, and sand and grass grew ghastly and slippery with the sheen of blood in the fitful moonlight, the British, notwithstanding the advantage in weight and numbers of the enemy, held their ground. When day was breaking, and the American general found his casualties exceeded one thousand, he withdrew his shattered army of invaders to Fort Erie. The British loss was 84 killed and 557 wounded. Lundy's Lane has been likened to the storming of St. Sebastian or the deathly duel at Quatre Bras. Both invaders and defenders exhibited heroism—worthy, in the case of the enemy, of a higher cause. General Drummond was wounded, and a son of General Hull, of Detroit notoriety, was among the killed.