The Story of Isaac Brock: Hero, Defender and Saviour of Upper Canada/25

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[Pg 136] 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[Pg 137] 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[Pg 138] 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,[Pg 139] 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.