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The Battle of
Queenston Heights
The last moments in the life
of Major-General Sir Isaac Brock
By Sasha Gilchrist
4 a.m., Oct. 13, 1812
The sound of arms broke the silence of the night. The room shook, as
the rumbling of a cannon carried down the Niagara River from the nearby
town of Queenston. In an instant Major-General Isaac Brock,
Commander-in-Chief of all the forces of Upper Canada, was up,
strategizing; his brilliant mind never stopped.
“What is their intention?” he muttered to himself.
The only way to win a war was to get inside a man's head, specifically
the opposing Major-General's.
He paced about briskly, mulling over the situation, “Queenston…why are
they attacking Queenston… a modest village of no more than twenty
houses? Is it a diversion? To lure us away from Fort George so they can
simply march in and take over? What's in Queenston? It’s a port, and a
prosperous port at that. Aside from that, all it has is the heights. But
militaristically, why in bloody hell would they want it? The Heights! That's
it!”
Brock was not a patient man. On the contrary, he was a man of action.
All the while, in the dark officer's quarters he was frantically pulling on
his breeches and knee-high black boots. Pristine white shirt half
buttoned, stuffed underneath his scarlet coatee, and cloak thrown about
him, unperturbed by the fact that he did not resemble his usual debonair
self. The only thing he paid heed to was Tecumseh's sash. He made sure
he secured the valuable gift firmly around his waist, then tore out of his
sleeping quarters, epaulettes flapping as he sprinted towards the
stable. Leaping onto his horse, Alfred, he bolted in the direction of the
battle. “Queenston it is,” he affirmed only pausing long enough to order
one artillery unit and one party of Mohawk warriors to follow him.
John MacDonnell, Brock’s aide de camp, rushed after his superior. But,
his efforts were futile; there was no way in hell he could catch up to him.
Similarly, two other aides stumbled out of their quarters half dressed,
with no time to mend their disheveled appearances. Lagging hopelessly
behind, they gave up knowing that even if they did catch up with the
general, there would be no way of convincing him to turn back.
Brock, exhilarated, was completely oblivious to the situation he
inadvertently left behind him. His blue cloak flailed behind him, billowing
in the wind as did his anomalous, unruly, blonde hair. Thundering down
the uneven cart track, he looked like a madman … and perhaps he was.
A madman caught in the heat of passion. Struggling through the mud of
the day’s previous tempest, he became increasingly frustrated. “Come
on!” Brock hollered. Alfred pressed on, his hoofs pounding the damp
ground beneath him; a dull thudding sound, muffled by the viscous mud.
Already quite agitated, Brock became furious when he came across a
young York militiaman. Mind you, he was not furious at the actual man.
“General Brock, Sir?” The young man called breathlessly, a tone of
uncertainty in his voice.
“It is I,” came the somewhat terse reply.
Hurriedly the man added, “I am part of the York militia and I carry
dispatches. I am to relay the news that the enemy has launched their
attack on Canadian soil at Queenston. They seek to gain the heights.”
Puzzled by the presence of this strapping, young messenger, Brock
proceeded to inquire about the present situation in Queenston. “What
about my signal fires? If my instructions were followed, then there would
be absolutely no need for you to be here right now,” his voice began to
rise, as did the color in his cheeks.
The militiaman looked him directly in the eye and replied, “No sir. As far
as I know no such signal fires were lit.”
“Did anyone even think of lighting those blasted things?” he hollered,
slamming a large, powerful fist into the hard leather saddle. After
pausing to take a deep breath in attempts to gain control of his famous
temper, he continued through gritted teeth, “My careful planning all
gone to waste.” He shook his head. “What is your name?”
“James Willcox…Sir,” he gulped.
“Well James Willcox, I offer you my sincere apologies. Follow me, we
need every man we can muster in Queenston. ”
“Yes Sir.”
Dark cloud hangs over Queenston
From a distance, Brock could see the dark, grey cloud that hung over
Queenston. As he neared the village, he was greeted with the pungent
smell of black powder and smoke that hung in the damp air.
Within minutes, he encountered the rest of the York Volunteers making
their way towards the besieged village. He waved them on in
encouragement as he galloped past; his presence greeted with heartfelt
cheers. Likewise, the Grenadiers cheered him on as he rode through the
village, their spirits lifting at the sight of their audacious general. Black
powder clung to their skin and uniforms accompanied by the sharp grit
that left an acrid taste in their mouths. But, far worse was the
overpowering scent of death and burning flesh…it was the most
sickening of all.
Assessing their current situation, Brock found that the Grenadiers were
barely holding the enemy. Realizing the gravity of the situation, he
galloped up the escarpment to where the Light Company was protecting
the strategic, military position of Queenston Heights. Upon reaching the
top, he ordered the light company to abandon the heights and assist
the Grenadiers in repelling the invading enemy.
General Brock, at his own discretion, was left atop the hill with only an
eight-man gunner team to guard the invaluable eighteen-pound cannon
that pounded the American shoreline incessantly. Capable of firing
eighteen-pound cannon balls, grapeshot and exploding shells this
armament was most definitely an asset.
The hypnotic rhythm
The air was filled with the hypnotic rhythm of continuous cannon ball
strikes, interrupted by the sporadic cracks of muskets from down bellow.
Hypnotized, Brock approached the edge of the cliff, peering down at the
chaotic scene before him. Surveying his loyal men, he secretly wished he
was among them. The Light Company fought alongside the heavyset
Grenadiers in conjunction with his favorite 49th Regiment of foot, all in all
a mere three hundred men to defend the largely imposing American
force.
The British could only possibly muster a total maximum of 1 200 men,
aside from the 250 Indian Allies they were counting on. In theory the
Americans could not lose the battle, for they already had approximately
6 000 men along the Niagara border. Yet, the British troops were better
trained…by far.
Precarious situation
Uncanny, crimson flares streaked the sky, illuminating the insipid dawn.
From his vantage point, Brock could see hundreds of the enemy
gathering along the American shore waiting to board the rowboats to
make the dangerous two hundred yard journey across the turbulent
Niagara River and then into hell itself. His respect went out to the brave
men rowing their boats across the Niagara (from Lewiston, N.Y.) whilst
grapeshot and other projectile exploded over their heads. Yet, at the
same time he knew the situation was precarious…and he wanted
nothing more than to eradicate every one of them.
A volley of musket balls soared overhead, punching through the thick,
murky air, breaking the General’s meditative trance. Unlike himself, his
eight-man gunner team had heard the initial battle cry of the enemy who
surreptitiously materialized in the shrouded woods behind them. Brock
whirled around just in time to dodge the bullet aimed in his direction,
narrowly avoiding the stealthy vehicle of death.
Razor-sharp bayonets gleamed menacingly in the light of the new dawn;
men armed and ready to avenge their fallen comrades. The volley was
merely a warning, for Captain John E. Wool, of the 13th U.S. Infantry,
proceeded to lead a terrifying bayonet charge.
Brock ran directly towards the enemy. “Spike the gun! Render it
unusable,” he cried as he seized Alfred by the reins and proceeded to
call for a retreat. With no time to remount, he scrambled down the hill
with his men, leading his steed down the rocky crevice.
A bayonet was a soldier’s, and likewise a surgeon’s worst nightmare, for
the lethal triangular blade renders a deep wound near impossible to
stitch. There was only one thing more frightening than a razor-sharp
bayonet…it was a blunt bayonet wielded by an exceptionally strong
man. One was considered to be lucky if they died instantly.
A traitor in our midst
Taking refuge in an abandoned house with his eight men, Brock plotted
his next move. He paced about furiously, stupefied by how the
Americans had managed to scale the heights and launch a sneak attack
right under the army’s nose. “Could it have been the old fisherman’s
path further upstream?” he pondered, “No…who could have informed
them about that? We must have a traitor in our midst!” he roared. His
thoughts and recollections were interrupted by MacDonnell who came
bursting in.
Breathless he said, “Sir, I have finally located you. What is your…”
Rounded with enlightenment, his piercing blue eyes softened as he fixed
his attention on something distant… something that only he could see. It
was best not to interrupt him.
“Sir?” MacDonnell asked hesitantly.
“Send the reinforcements!” Brock interrupted, “It is imperative that they
arrive as soon as possible.”
“Yes Sir,” MacDonnell replied running out of the house pell-mell, sliding
down the ancient wooden steps, proceeding to put his foot through one
of the rotten boards. “I assure you I am all right Sir. Never been better.”
“Good.”
MacDonnell proceeded to mount his horse, and almost fell off as the
white steed bolted (back) in the direction of Fort George with a very
flustered MacDonnell clutching its mane, with his small, pasty white fists,
holding on for dear life. Despite his clumsiness, MacDonnell was a most
excellent soldier. Simply saying that he was dedicated to the cause was
a first class understatement.
A desperate situation
“What do you intend to do sir?” A boy evidently no older than 15 asked,
wiping the watery string of mucus, that hung from his nose, on the
sleeve of his scarlet uniform…quite a juvenile act.
“Well men, we have two options. We can wait for the reinforcements to
arrive…or we can retake the heights…without the reinforcements.” The
men looked back silently at him, awaiting his order.
“Of course,” the general continued on, “the second option would be
quite hazardous, but the situation is desperate. I assure you, there is
no want of courage in my nature. I would not send any of my men where
I, myself, would not dare to set foot. The Americans will use this time-
the time it will take for reinforcements to arrive- to ferry over more men
and consolidate their position. With control of the heights, they will be
able to detect any movement of troops along the Niagara River. They will
be able to see all the way up to Lake Ontario. Not only that, if they are
victorious, they will split my thin red line along the Niagara frontier in
exactly two pieces. Worse yet, they would cut off our supply line. It is
imperative that we promptly take action. We cannot afford to wait any
longer. Men, we are going to take back the heights. I assure you,
gentlemen, the end will justify the means.” With that he dashed out the
door.
“God save General Brock!” one man bellowed.
“God save the King! Another followed.
“God save Upper Canada!” Brock hollered back as he galloped toward
the village, the eight men trooping after him.
“God save us all,” whispered another limping behind, blood trickling from
the wound in his left leg.
Brock galloped through the tiny village of Queenston mustering a
mixture of two-hundred professional soldiers and an equal number of
fatigued militiamen. Despite the militiamen’s inexperience in the
engagements of war, they were no lesser in valor. Brock was now proud
to lead these men, for they had proven their loyalty at Detroit. “Follow
me boys,” he cried, speeding toward to base of Queenston Heights.
A congregation of soldiers and militia, huddled by a stone fence running
from the base of the hill all the way to the crest, eagerly awaited
instruction from their beloved leader Brock was their savior. War was
now their religion. They were consumed by it whether they liked it or
not; there was no turning back now.
Brock dismounted and walked among his supporters, all the while the
American infantry kept a delightfully steady fire over their heads. Well
above six-feet, he was a man of imposing stature and who possessed
an air of immeasurable power. “Take a breath, boys, you’ll need it in a
moment.” An eruption of thundering cheers followed the statement that
Brock later became famous for.
Saber drawn, he stormed the heights. “Foreword!” he cried, leading the
way running up the muddy slope in long, powerful strides. Men were slip-
sliding their way up the heights, but he never faltered. Even when a
bullet ripped through his wrist he continued to move forward urging his
men to follow. “Press on men!” he called, waving his saber furiously.
Such vigor was astounding– startlingly marvelous- a spirit unmatched by
any. Such leadership was consummate…unprecedented. Known for
having a cool head and a contradictory fiery temper during battle, he
was actually able to function beyond efficiency.
A vulnerable target
The American lines dwindled as they fell back out of shear fear, not in
the least expecting a frontal attack. Yet, the Canadian line, behind Brock
remained unified against all odds. To their dismay, the Americans
realized that these were no mediocre marksmen thrashing their way up
the steep slopes of the perilous Queenston Heights. The closer they got
to one another, the more lethal their weapons became, by the time they
reached a distance of twenty feet (from one another), that flintlock
musket was as accurate as the man who was firing it. Yet, both sides
knew that the American force was still greater in numbers.
Lead balls burned through the smoky air, zipping by the men’s heads,
narrowly missing them. Yet, amid all the pandemonium, one could still
pick out the cry of a man and distinguish between a friend, a foe, a
stranger or a nemesis.
Brock’s solitary position at the front, combined with his brilliant general’s
uniform and sheer size made him a vulnerable target as he advanced
towards the enemy lines. “You can tell your President Madison that
taking hold of Upper Canada was not a mere matter of marching,” he
said as he jabbed his saber into the abdomen of an equally large
American Captain. As Brock stepped over the fallen corpse, the glittering,
golden epaulettes that sat upon his broad shoulders caught the eye of
an adept marksman.
“Are you much hurt, Sir?” asked a highly concerned militiaman. With no
more than a whispered half sentence of “my body…the enemy must
not…” he fell to the ground clutching his chest and died instantly. The
insidious lead bullet had found its mark in the General’s heart.
A group of dismayed soldiers gathered around their fallen leader unable
to grasp the fact that the Savior of Upper Canada lay dead. They stood
rooted in the ground unable to move, all under the illusion that time had
stopped. A cannon ball cut through the air slicing one of the men in two.
The severed corpse fell on the dead general’s body prompting the
surrounding soldiers into action. They proceeded to carry their general
back down the hill. Body limp and helpless, he no longer resembled the
fiery general they once knew and loved. The Savior of Upper Canada
was no longer.
Epilogue
Unfortunately, Brock’s counter-attack failed miserably. John MacDonnell
led another counter attack, and he too was fatally wounded.
Regrettably, the British were forced to temporarily abandon the position
to the Americans. Major-General Roger Hale Sheaffe proceeded to plan
his own counter-attack, leading the reinforcements that were summoned
earlier that morning. His offensive force consisted of the 41st Regiment,
the Royal Artillery, and the Militia.
The final engagement commenced at 3 p.m. Under the leadership of
General Roger Sheaffe, the British finally successfully reached the top of
the heights. This was achieved by veering far enough to the west of
Queenston before attempting to scale the heights. Such a detour
enabled them to be out of the Americans’ view.
Sheaffe’s men regrouped in the middle of a field near the base of the
heights before attempting to storm them. By 4:00 pm they were joined
by and additional 150 men who had just arrived from Fort Chippewa.
Now Sheaffe had a total of 1000 men. It was time to surprise the
Americans.
The sun had long since risen, and the Canadian and British forces had
lived to see the light of day…and they had successfully scaled the
heights, attempting to take them yet again. It appeared that seizing
Canada was not a mere matter of marching.
The entire British line fired a volley and proceeded to advance in a
bayonet charge. The Americans, with their backs to the steepest side of
the cliff were left with only two options. One option was to jump off the
cliff, but the more promising alternative was to surrender to the British.
Many men fell to their deaths, but many more surrendered. The
Canadians were victorious.
The American toll was much heavier than the British and Canadian toll.
The collective British and Canadian toll was only 14 dead and 77
wounded and 21 missing, whereas the American toll was 300 or more
dead or wounded and 925 taken as prisoners of war. Worse yet, the
Americans did not even acquire the territory they sought after.
Afterwards, judging by their faces, one would have thought that the
British had lost the entire war. Dejected, dismayed, crestfallen,
melancholy, disconsolate, dismal, downcast, all are great words to
describe the mood of the people of Upper Canada. Victory was more
bitter than sweet, for it came at a high cost. The price was their beloved
leader General Brock, the Savior of Upper Canada. Upper Canada was a
grief-stricken nation. Even the most stoical individuals were stricken with
intense emotion.
On Oct. 18, 1812, the bodies of Sir Isaac Brock and his aide-de-camp
John MacDonnell were interred in the ramparts of Fort George. For, both
these brave men died a hero’s death.
Part of the memorial service consisted of a 21 gun salute that banged
out in tribute to General Brock. It was echoed by one from the nearby
American Fort (Fort Niagara) out of respect and admiration for the great
man who fell on that fateful October day.
In England, Brock’s native country, church bells rang in his memory. A
mere three days before his death the Prince Regent made Brock a Knight
of the Order of Bath, an honor he never knew of.
After many other battles, following the Battle of Queenston Heights, the
Treaty of Ghent was signed on Dec. 24, 1814. According to history no
one clearly won this war. Maybe no one “won” the war of 1812, but it
gave two nations an enhanced sense or who they were or who they
were not. Many brave and dedicated men, including Isaac Brock, proved
that the Canadians were most definitely a force to be reckoned with.
In 1824 a monument atop Queenston Heights was erected to General
Brock, later to be blown up supposedly by the Fenians. However, the
culprits were never apprehended and there is no evidence to prove that
the Fenians were the ones responsible for this heinous crime.
Fortunately, a replacement for the first Brock monument was built soon
after and can still be visited today. A statue of Major-General Brock now
stands atop a 56-metre column looking out over the territory he and his
men defended. This is where Brock’s and MacDonnell’s bodies currently
reside.
The builders of the Brock Monument made it impressive to convey their
(own) message. In their opinion, the Battle of Queenston Heights and
Brock himself symbolized the continuation of Upper Canada’s strong ties
with Great Britain. But in truth, the monument stands for a multitude of
messages that pertain to every Canadian.
Whether the Brock Monument is one of the few markers of this largely
forgotten war, the headstone that marks our hero’s resting place, or
simply a reminder to our American neighbors, one must remember that
above all, it is a reminder of the many sacrifices our forefathers made for
us to keep this country a non-American nation. They granted us the gift
of independence; the crucial stepping stone to a Canadian Nation. They
preserved out identity. The spirit of Canada lives.
Sasha Gilchrist is a Grade 12 student who wrote this article for her Writer's
Craft course in 2005.
Works cited
Canada. Heritage Canada. The Battle of Queenston Heights Walking
Tour. Canada: Minister of Supply and Services Canada, 1997.
Crump, Jennifer. The War of 1812 Against the States Heroes of a Great
Canadian Victory. Canmore: Altitude Publishing Canada Ltd, 2003
Humber, Todd. The Veterans of 1812. General Brock.com. 20 Dec. 2004. .
Humber, Todd. Notable figures from the War of 1812. General Brock.com.
20 Dec. 2004. < http://www.generalbrock.com/level2/cast.htm>.
Ibbitson, John. 1812 Jeremy and the General. Don Mills: Maxwell
Macmillan Canada Inc, 1991
Suthren, Victor. The War of 1812. Toronto: The Canadian Publishers,
1999.
Queenston Heights
The last moments in the life
of Major-General Sir Isaac Brock
By Sasha Gilchrist
4 a.m., Oct. 13, 1812
The sound of arms broke the silence of the night. The room shook, as
the rumbling of a cannon carried down the Niagara River from the nearby
town of Queenston. In an instant Major-General Isaac Brock,
Commander-in-Chief of all the forces of Upper Canada, was up,
strategizing; his brilliant mind never stopped.
“What is their intention?” he muttered to himself.
The only way to win a war was to get inside a man's head, specifically
the opposing Major-General's.
He paced about briskly, mulling over the situation, “Queenston…why are
they attacking Queenston… a modest village of no more than twenty
houses? Is it a diversion? To lure us away from Fort George so they can
simply march in and take over? What's in Queenston? It’s a port, and a
prosperous port at that. Aside from that, all it has is the heights. But
militaristically, why in bloody hell would they want it? The Heights! That's
it!”
Brock was not a patient man. On the contrary, he was a man of action.
All the while, in the dark officer's quarters he was frantically pulling on
his breeches and knee-high black boots. Pristine white shirt half
buttoned, stuffed underneath his scarlet coatee, and cloak thrown about
him, unperturbed by the fact that he did not resemble his usual debonair
self. The only thing he paid heed to was Tecumseh's sash. He made sure
he secured the valuable gift firmly around his waist, then tore out of his
sleeping quarters, epaulettes flapping as he sprinted towards the
stable. Leaping onto his horse, Alfred, he bolted in the direction of the
battle. “Queenston it is,” he affirmed only pausing long enough to order
one artillery unit and one party of Mohawk warriors to follow him.
John MacDonnell, Brock’s aide de camp, rushed after his superior. But,
his efforts were futile; there was no way in hell he could catch up to him.
Similarly, two other aides stumbled out of their quarters half dressed,
with no time to mend their disheveled appearances. Lagging hopelessly
behind, they gave up knowing that even if they did catch up with the
general, there would be no way of convincing him to turn back.
Brock, exhilarated, was completely oblivious to the situation he
inadvertently left behind him. His blue cloak flailed behind him, billowing
in the wind as did his anomalous, unruly, blonde hair. Thundering down
the uneven cart track, he looked like a madman … and perhaps he was.
A madman caught in the heat of passion. Struggling through the mud of
the day’s previous tempest, he became increasingly frustrated. “Come
on!” Brock hollered. Alfred pressed on, his hoofs pounding the damp
ground beneath him; a dull thudding sound, muffled by the viscous mud.
Already quite agitated, Brock became furious when he came across a
young York militiaman. Mind you, he was not furious at the actual man.
“General Brock, Sir?” The young man called breathlessly, a tone of
uncertainty in his voice.
“It is I,” came the somewhat terse reply.
Hurriedly the man added, “I am part of the York militia and I carry
dispatches. I am to relay the news that the enemy has launched their
attack on Canadian soil at Queenston. They seek to gain the heights.”
Puzzled by the presence of this strapping, young messenger, Brock
proceeded to inquire about the present situation in Queenston. “What
about my signal fires? If my instructions were followed, then there would
be absolutely no need for you to be here right now,” his voice began to
rise, as did the color in his cheeks.
The militiaman looked him directly in the eye and replied, “No sir. As far
as I know no such signal fires were lit.”
“Did anyone even think of lighting those blasted things?” he hollered,
slamming a large, powerful fist into the hard leather saddle. After
pausing to take a deep breath in attempts to gain control of his famous
temper, he continued through gritted teeth, “My careful planning all
gone to waste.” He shook his head. “What is your name?”
“James Willcox…Sir,” he gulped.
“Well James Willcox, I offer you my sincere apologies. Follow me, we
need every man we can muster in Queenston. ”
“Yes Sir.”
Dark cloud hangs over Queenston
From a distance, Brock could see the dark, grey cloud that hung over
Queenston. As he neared the village, he was greeted with the pungent
smell of black powder and smoke that hung in the damp air.
Within minutes, he encountered the rest of the York Volunteers making
their way towards the besieged village. He waved them on in
encouragement as he galloped past; his presence greeted with heartfelt
cheers. Likewise, the Grenadiers cheered him on as he rode through the
village, their spirits lifting at the sight of their audacious general. Black
powder clung to their skin and uniforms accompanied by the sharp grit
that left an acrid taste in their mouths. But, far worse was the
overpowering scent of death and burning flesh…it was the most
sickening of all.
Assessing their current situation, Brock found that the Grenadiers were
barely holding the enemy. Realizing the gravity of the situation, he
galloped up the escarpment to where the Light Company was protecting
the strategic, military position of Queenston Heights. Upon reaching the
top, he ordered the light company to abandon the heights and assist
the Grenadiers in repelling the invading enemy.
General Brock, at his own discretion, was left atop the hill with only an
eight-man gunner team to guard the invaluable eighteen-pound cannon
that pounded the American shoreline incessantly. Capable of firing
eighteen-pound cannon balls, grapeshot and exploding shells this
armament was most definitely an asset.
The hypnotic rhythm
The air was filled with the hypnotic rhythm of continuous cannon ball
strikes, interrupted by the sporadic cracks of muskets from down bellow.
Hypnotized, Brock approached the edge of the cliff, peering down at the
chaotic scene before him. Surveying his loyal men, he secretly wished he
was among them. The Light Company fought alongside the heavyset
Grenadiers in conjunction with his favorite 49th Regiment of foot, all in all
a mere three hundred men to defend the largely imposing American
force.
The British could only possibly muster a total maximum of 1 200 men,
aside from the 250 Indian Allies they were counting on. In theory the
Americans could not lose the battle, for they already had approximately
6 000 men along the Niagara border. Yet, the British troops were better
trained…by far.
Precarious situation
Uncanny, crimson flares streaked the sky, illuminating the insipid dawn.
From his vantage point, Brock could see hundreds of the enemy
gathering along the American shore waiting to board the rowboats to
make the dangerous two hundred yard journey across the turbulent
Niagara River and then into hell itself. His respect went out to the brave
men rowing their boats across the Niagara (from Lewiston, N.Y.) whilst
grapeshot and other projectile exploded over their heads. Yet, at the
same time he knew the situation was precarious…and he wanted
nothing more than to eradicate every one of them.
A volley of musket balls soared overhead, punching through the thick,
murky air, breaking the General’s meditative trance. Unlike himself, his
eight-man gunner team had heard the initial battle cry of the enemy who
surreptitiously materialized in the shrouded woods behind them. Brock
whirled around just in time to dodge the bullet aimed in his direction,
narrowly avoiding the stealthy vehicle of death.
Razor-sharp bayonets gleamed menacingly in the light of the new dawn;
men armed and ready to avenge their fallen comrades. The volley was
merely a warning, for Captain John E. Wool, of the 13th U.S. Infantry,
proceeded to lead a terrifying bayonet charge.
Brock ran directly towards the enemy. “Spike the gun! Render it
unusable,” he cried as he seized Alfred by the reins and proceeded to
call for a retreat. With no time to remount, he scrambled down the hill
with his men, leading his steed down the rocky crevice.
A bayonet was a soldier’s, and likewise a surgeon’s worst nightmare, for
the lethal triangular blade renders a deep wound near impossible to
stitch. There was only one thing more frightening than a razor-sharp
bayonet…it was a blunt bayonet wielded by an exceptionally strong
man. One was considered to be lucky if they died instantly.
A traitor in our midst
Taking refuge in an abandoned house with his eight men, Brock plotted
his next move. He paced about furiously, stupefied by how the
Americans had managed to scale the heights and launch a sneak attack
right under the army’s nose. “Could it have been the old fisherman’s
path further upstream?” he pondered, “No…who could have informed
them about that? We must have a traitor in our midst!” he roared. His
thoughts and recollections were interrupted by MacDonnell who came
bursting in.
Breathless he said, “Sir, I have finally located you. What is your…”
Rounded with enlightenment, his piercing blue eyes softened as he fixed
his attention on something distant… something that only he could see. It
was best not to interrupt him.
“Sir?” MacDonnell asked hesitantly.
“Send the reinforcements!” Brock interrupted, “It is imperative that they
arrive as soon as possible.”
“Yes Sir,” MacDonnell replied running out of the house pell-mell, sliding
down the ancient wooden steps, proceeding to put his foot through one
of the rotten boards. “I assure you I am all right Sir. Never been better.”
“Good.”
MacDonnell proceeded to mount his horse, and almost fell off as the
white steed bolted (back) in the direction of Fort George with a very
flustered MacDonnell clutching its mane, with his small, pasty white fists,
holding on for dear life. Despite his clumsiness, MacDonnell was a most
excellent soldier. Simply saying that he was dedicated to the cause was
a first class understatement.
A desperate situation
“What do you intend to do sir?” A boy evidently no older than 15 asked,
wiping the watery string of mucus, that hung from his nose, on the
sleeve of his scarlet uniform…quite a juvenile act.
“Well men, we have two options. We can wait for the reinforcements to
arrive…or we can retake the heights…without the reinforcements.” The
men looked back silently at him, awaiting his order.
“Of course,” the general continued on, “the second option would be
quite hazardous, but the situation is desperate. I assure you, there is
no want of courage in my nature. I would not send any of my men where
I, myself, would not dare to set foot. The Americans will use this time-
the time it will take for reinforcements to arrive- to ferry over more men
and consolidate their position. With control of the heights, they will be
able to detect any movement of troops along the Niagara River. They will
be able to see all the way up to Lake Ontario. Not only that, if they are
victorious, they will split my thin red line along the Niagara frontier in
exactly two pieces. Worse yet, they would cut off our supply line. It is
imperative that we promptly take action. We cannot afford to wait any
longer. Men, we are going to take back the heights. I assure you,
gentlemen, the end will justify the means.” With that he dashed out the
door.
“God save General Brock!” one man bellowed.
“God save the King! Another followed.
“God save Upper Canada!” Brock hollered back as he galloped toward
the village, the eight men trooping after him.
“God save us all,” whispered another limping behind, blood trickling from
the wound in his left leg.
Brock galloped through the tiny village of Queenston mustering a
mixture of two-hundred professional soldiers and an equal number of
fatigued militiamen. Despite the militiamen’s inexperience in the
engagements of war, they were no lesser in valor. Brock was now proud
to lead these men, for they had proven their loyalty at Detroit. “Follow
me boys,” he cried, speeding toward to base of Queenston Heights.
A congregation of soldiers and militia, huddled by a stone fence running
from the base of the hill all the way to the crest, eagerly awaited
instruction from their beloved leader Brock was their savior. War was
now their religion. They were consumed by it whether they liked it or
not; there was no turning back now.
Brock dismounted and walked among his supporters, all the while the
American infantry kept a delightfully steady fire over their heads. Well
above six-feet, he was a man of imposing stature and who possessed
an air of immeasurable power. “Take a breath, boys, you’ll need it in a
moment.” An eruption of thundering cheers followed the statement that
Brock later became famous for.
Saber drawn, he stormed the heights. “Foreword!” he cried, leading the
way running up the muddy slope in long, powerful strides. Men were slip-
sliding their way up the heights, but he never faltered. Even when a
bullet ripped through his wrist he continued to move forward urging his
men to follow. “Press on men!” he called, waving his saber furiously.
Such vigor was astounding– startlingly marvelous- a spirit unmatched by
any. Such leadership was consummate…unprecedented. Known for
having a cool head and a contradictory fiery temper during battle, he
was actually able to function beyond efficiency.
A vulnerable target
The American lines dwindled as they fell back out of shear fear, not in
the least expecting a frontal attack. Yet, the Canadian line, behind Brock
remained unified against all odds. To their dismay, the Americans
realized that these were no mediocre marksmen thrashing their way up
the steep slopes of the perilous Queenston Heights. The closer they got
to one another, the more lethal their weapons became, by the time they
reached a distance of twenty feet (from one another), that flintlock
musket was as accurate as the man who was firing it. Yet, both sides
knew that the American force was still greater in numbers.
Lead balls burned through the smoky air, zipping by the men’s heads,
narrowly missing them. Yet, amid all the pandemonium, one could still
pick out the cry of a man and distinguish between a friend, a foe, a
stranger or a nemesis.
Brock’s solitary position at the front, combined with his brilliant general’s
uniform and sheer size made him a vulnerable target as he advanced
towards the enemy lines. “You can tell your President Madison that
taking hold of Upper Canada was not a mere matter of marching,” he
said as he jabbed his saber into the abdomen of an equally large
American Captain. As Brock stepped over the fallen corpse, the glittering,
golden epaulettes that sat upon his broad shoulders caught the eye of
an adept marksman.
“Are you much hurt, Sir?” asked a highly concerned militiaman. With no
more than a whispered half sentence of “my body…the enemy must
not…” he fell to the ground clutching his chest and died instantly. The
insidious lead bullet had found its mark in the General’s heart.
A group of dismayed soldiers gathered around their fallen leader unable
to grasp the fact that the Savior of Upper Canada lay dead. They stood
rooted in the ground unable to move, all under the illusion that time had
stopped. A cannon ball cut through the air slicing one of the men in two.
The severed corpse fell on the dead general’s body prompting the
surrounding soldiers into action. They proceeded to carry their general
back down the hill. Body limp and helpless, he no longer resembled the
fiery general they once knew and loved. The Savior of Upper Canada
was no longer.
Epilogue
Unfortunately, Brock’s counter-attack failed miserably. John MacDonnell
led another counter attack, and he too was fatally wounded.
Regrettably, the British were forced to temporarily abandon the position
to the Americans. Major-General Roger Hale Sheaffe proceeded to plan
his own counter-attack, leading the reinforcements that were summoned
earlier that morning. His offensive force consisted of the 41st Regiment,
the Royal Artillery, and the Militia.
The final engagement commenced at 3 p.m. Under the leadership of
General Roger Sheaffe, the British finally successfully reached the top of
the heights. This was achieved by veering far enough to the west of
Queenston before attempting to scale the heights. Such a detour
enabled them to be out of the Americans’ view.
Sheaffe’s men regrouped in the middle of a field near the base of the
heights before attempting to storm them. By 4:00 pm they were joined
by and additional 150 men who had just arrived from Fort Chippewa.
Now Sheaffe had a total of 1000 men. It was time to surprise the
Americans.
The sun had long since risen, and the Canadian and British forces had
lived to see the light of day…and they had successfully scaled the
heights, attempting to take them yet again. It appeared that seizing
Canada was not a mere matter of marching.
The entire British line fired a volley and proceeded to advance in a
bayonet charge. The Americans, with their backs to the steepest side of
the cliff were left with only two options. One option was to jump off the
cliff, but the more promising alternative was to surrender to the British.
Many men fell to their deaths, but many more surrendered. The
Canadians were victorious.
The American toll was much heavier than the British and Canadian toll.
The collective British and Canadian toll was only 14 dead and 77
wounded and 21 missing, whereas the American toll was 300 or more
dead or wounded and 925 taken as prisoners of war. Worse yet, the
Americans did not even acquire the territory they sought after.
Afterwards, judging by their faces, one would have thought that the
British had lost the entire war. Dejected, dismayed, crestfallen,
melancholy, disconsolate, dismal, downcast, all are great words to
describe the mood of the people of Upper Canada. Victory was more
bitter than sweet, for it came at a high cost. The price was their beloved
leader General Brock, the Savior of Upper Canada. Upper Canada was a
grief-stricken nation. Even the most stoical individuals were stricken with
intense emotion.
On Oct. 18, 1812, the bodies of Sir Isaac Brock and his aide-de-camp
John MacDonnell were interred in the ramparts of Fort George. For, both
these brave men died a hero’s death.
Part of the memorial service consisted of a 21 gun salute that banged
out in tribute to General Brock. It was echoed by one from the nearby
American Fort (Fort Niagara) out of respect and admiration for the great
man who fell on that fateful October day.
In England, Brock’s native country, church bells rang in his memory. A
mere three days before his death the Prince Regent made Brock a Knight
of the Order of Bath, an honor he never knew of.
After many other battles, following the Battle of Queenston Heights, the
Treaty of Ghent was signed on Dec. 24, 1814. According to history no
one clearly won this war. Maybe no one “won” the war of 1812, but it
gave two nations an enhanced sense or who they were or who they
were not. Many brave and dedicated men, including Isaac Brock, proved
that the Canadians were most definitely a force to be reckoned with.
In 1824 a monument atop Queenston Heights was erected to General
Brock, later to be blown up supposedly by the Fenians. However, the
culprits were never apprehended and there is no evidence to prove that
the Fenians were the ones responsible for this heinous crime.
Fortunately, a replacement for the first Brock monument was built soon
after and can still be visited today. A statue of Major-General Brock now
stands atop a 56-metre column looking out over the territory he and his
men defended. This is where Brock’s and MacDonnell’s bodies currently
reside.
The builders of the Brock Monument made it impressive to convey their
(own) message. In their opinion, the Battle of Queenston Heights and
Brock himself symbolized the continuation of Upper Canada’s strong ties
with Great Britain. But in truth, the monument stands for a multitude of
messages that pertain to every Canadian.
Whether the Brock Monument is one of the few markers of this largely
forgotten war, the headstone that marks our hero’s resting place, or
simply a reminder to our American neighbors, one must remember that
above all, it is a reminder of the many sacrifices our forefathers made for
us to keep this country a non-American nation. They granted us the gift
of independence; the crucial stepping stone to a Canadian Nation. They
preserved out identity. The spirit of Canada lives.
Sasha Gilchrist is a Grade 12 student who wrote this article for her Writer's
Craft course in 2005.
Works cited
Canada. Heritage Canada. The Battle of Queenston Heights Walking
Tour. Canada: Minister of Supply and Services Canada, 1997.
Crump, Jennifer. The War of 1812 Against the States Heroes of a Great
Canadian Victory. Canmore: Altitude Publishing Canada Ltd, 2003
Humber, Todd. The Veterans of 1812. General Brock.com. 20 Dec. 2004. .
Humber, Todd. Notable figures from the War of 1812. General Brock.com.
20 Dec. 2004. < http://www.generalbrock.com/level2/cast.htm>.
Ibbitson, John. 1812 Jeremy and the General. Don Mills: Maxwell
Macmillan Canada Inc, 1991
Suthren, Victor. The War of 1812. Toronto: The Canadian Publishers,
1999.