The Story of Isaac Brock Part 10

"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-cla.s.s 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 pa.s.sage."

In district general orders prepared that night, the last official doc.u.ment 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 a.s.surances, 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 ent.i.tled 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 G.o.d 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BROCK'S MIDNIGHT GALLOP]

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 pa.s.sing 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 ma.n.u.script and pa.s.sed on to his bedroom.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

A m.u.f.fled, 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 pa.s.sed 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. Pa.s.sing 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 "G.o.d speed him." Some came out to follow him, and many a good wife's face was pressed to the window to watch "The General! G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e 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. Sh.e.l.ls 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-b.a.l.l.s 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 pa.s.sage 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 bra.s.s 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 c.o.c.kade, he was recognized, and welcomed by the men of the 49th with a ringing cheer.