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 whiteshemogonis(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, whilegallantly 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 sloopHunter, 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 thathe 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 theChippewa, 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 theLady Prevost, of fourteenguns, the commander of which, after saluting the hero of Detroit with seventeen guns, boarded theChippewa, handing him despatches that notified him of anarmistice, 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 theChippewa, 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, theQueen Charlotte, in Canadian water, was seen and signalled, and, the wind rising, she convoyed theChippewaand 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 wasreceived 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."
View of Queenston Heights and Brock's Monument
View of Queenston Heights and Brock's Monument
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 concededwas 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 theprosandcons," 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 contributesomething to the comfort and happiness of his brothers. The value of the "treasure" captured at Detroit was placed at £40,000. 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.
Neither King nor Imperial Government was slow torecognize our hero's achievements. The Prince Regent, who expressed his appreciation of Brock's "able, judicious and decisive conduct," bestowed upon him anextraknighthood 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.
Portrait of Major-General Brock, 18 X 6
"Portrait of Major-General Brock, 18 x 6"
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 thefreedom of the lakes and riversbe 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 thissecondtruce, 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 thecontrary, 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 protégé.
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—thePrince RegentandEarl 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 brigDetroit, formerly the United States brigAdams—captured, as we know, by Roulette—and the trading brigCaledonia. 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 wasladen 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."
"For every day I stand outside your door,And bid you wake and rise to fight and win."
"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 wasto 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.
Powder Magazine, Fort George, Niagara
Powder Magazine, Fort George, Niagara
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 whichcould 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. Ourspies 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 fromBrock 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, orThayendanegea, 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 theDetroitis a serious loss to us. If theDetroitis 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 preparedfor 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 bysurprise, in preference to the certainty of meeting British troopsready 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 wearetaken 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."
"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.
Brock's Midnight Gallop
Brock's 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 asignal 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 flutteredher 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-waterbarragein 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 uphis 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, mounteden 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.
[3]This gun is credited with having fired 160 shots during the engagement.
[3]This gun is credited with having fired 160 shots during the engagement.
Battle of Queenston Heights. From an old Print
Battle of Queenston Heights.From an old Print
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.
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 determinedto 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.
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 thehundreds 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 plausibleexcuse 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."