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The Invasion
of Canada
By Pierre Berton
First published in 1980
McClelland and Stewart Limited (Toronto)
ISBN: 0-7710-1235-7
One of the best-known and loved books
about the War of 1812, Pierre Berton's
The Invasion of Canada tells the story of
the years leading up to the war and
covers the first half of the conflict.
Berton takes a bit of licence, as he is apt
to do in his writing, but doesn't sacrifice
any major historical facts for the sake of
making the tale more interesting.
More than any author, Berton has been
able to capture something about the
mystique surrounding Brock. A tall figure
in real life, Brock is elevated to mythical
proportions by Berton that are nearly as
high as the monument built in Brock's
honour at Queenston.
of Canada
By Pierre Berton
First published in 1980
McClelland and Stewart Limited (Toronto)
ISBN: 0-7710-1235-7
One of the best-known and loved books
about the War of 1812, Pierre Berton's
The Invasion of Canada tells the story of
the years leading up to the war and
covers the first half of the conflict.
Berton takes a bit of licence, as he is apt
to do in his writing, but doesn't sacrifice
any major historical facts for the sake of
making the tale more interesting.
More than any author, Berton has been
able to capture something about the
mystique surrounding Brock. A tall figure
in real life, Brock is elevated to mythical
proportions by Berton that are nearly as
high as the monument built in Brock's
honour at Queenston.
What's in the book
The book starts out around 1807, and does a beautiful job of setting up
the reasons behind the start of the conflict, including Tippecanoe and
the Chesapeake incident.
It walks through the declaration of war, the early decisive British
victories, Brock's fall at Queenston and ends with the massacre at the
River Raisin. Berton's second novel, Flames Across the Border, covers the
second half of the war. It's a decent read, but the real magic is in this
first volume.
Excerpt
If you haven't read Berton's accounts of the capture of Detroit and the
battle of Queenston Heights, those two chapters alone are worth buying
the book for. Here's an excerpt from chapter 6, "Queenston Heights: The
End of Isaac Brock" describing the reaction to Brock's death (the
subheads are added by the editor and do not appear in the text):
The reaction to Brock's death
All of Canada is stunned by Brock's loss. His own soldiers, the men of the
49th who were with him in Holland and at Copenhagen, are prostrated
by the news. Of all the scenes of sorrow and despair that day, the most
affecting is the one reported by Lieutenant Driscoll of the 100th
Regiment, who had come up from Fort Erie to help direct artillery fire
against the American battery at Black Rock. At two that afternoon
Driscoll looks up to see a provincial dragoon gallop up, dishevelled,
without sword or helmet, his horse bathed in foam, his own body
spattered with mud.
One of Brock's veterans, a man named Clibborn, speaks up:
"Horse and man jaded, sir, depend upon it, he brings bad news."
Driscoll sends the veteran across to discover what message the dragoon
has brought. The soldier doubles over to the rider but returns at a
funereal pace, and Driscoll realizes that something dreadful has
occurred. He calls out:
"What news, Clibborn? What news, man? Speak out."
Clibborn walks slowly toward the battery, which is still maintaining a
brisk fire at the Americans across the river. Musket balls plough into the
ground around him; he does not seem to see them. He cannot speak,
can only shake his head. At last he slumps down on the gun platform,
his features dead white, his face a mask of sorrow.
Driscoll cannot stand the silence, shakes Clibborn by the shoulder:
"For heaven's sake, tell us what you know."
Clibborn answers at last, almost choking.
"The General is killed; the enemy has possession of Queenston Heights."
At those words, every man in the battery becomes paralysed. The guns
cease firing. These are the men of the 49th, all of whom have served
under Brock in Europe; they are shattered by the news. Some weep
openly. Others mourn in silence. Several begin to curse in frustration.
The sound of enemy cheers, drifting across the river, rouses them to
their duty. In a helpless rage over the death of their general, they
become demonic, loading, traversing and firing the heavy guns as if they
were light field pieces, flinging round after round across the river in an
attempt to avenge their former chief.
All over the province, similar expressions of grief are manifest. Glegg,
Brock's military aide, calls it a "public calamity." Young George Ridout of
the York Volunteers writes to his brother that "were it not for the death
of General Brock and Macdonell our victory would have been glorious…
but in losing our man… is an irreparable loss." Like many others, Ridout
is convinced that Brock was the only man capable of leading the divided
province. Samuel Jarvis crosses the lake to bring the news of the
tragedy to York where "the thrill of dismay… was something
indescribable."
In Quebec, an old friend, Anne Ilbert, who once volunteered to
embroider some handkerchiefs for the bachelor general so the
laundresses wouldn't steal them, writes to an acquaintance that "the
conquest of half the United States would not repay us for his loss… by
the faces of the people here you would judge that we had lost
everything, so general is the regret everyone feels for this brave man,
the victory is completely swallowed up in it." She fears for the future,
wonders what the troops will do under another commander, suspects
that Upper Canada will fall to the Americans before winter's end. "This is
the first real horror of war we have experienced. God send it may not
lead to a train of others."
Prevost, when he learns of his general's death, is so badly shaken that
he can scarcely hold the pen with which to report the tragedy to Sir John
Sherbrooke in Halifax. Yet he mentions the matter only briefly in that
letter. And later, when a dispatch reaches him quoting the Prince Regent
at some length on Brock's heroism and ability, he publishes in the
Quebecc Gazette the first non-committal sentence only, omitting phrases
about "an able and meritorious officer… who… displayed qualities
admirably adapted to awe the disloyal, to reconcile the wavering, and
animate the great mass of inhabitants against successive attempts by
the enemy to invade the province…."
Brock's funeral
Brock's body, brought back to Newark, lies in state for three days. His
funeral, in George Ridout's words, is "the grandest and most solemn
that I have ever witnessed or that has been seen in Upper Canada."
Brock's casket and Macdonell's are borne through a double line of
Indians and militia — 5,000 men resting on reversed arms. The twin
coffins are buried in the York bastion of the fort. Guns boom every
minute during the procession while across the river, at both Niagara and
Lewiston, the Americans fire a salute to their old enemy. Sheaffe, on
hearing the American guns, is overcome and says in a choked voice to
one of his officers that "noble minded as General Brock was, he would
have ordered the same had a like disaster befallen the enemy."
Upper Canada is numb, its people drawn closer by a common tragedy
that few outsiders can comprehend.
Brock's legacy
The picture of Brock storming the heights at Queenston, urging on the
brave York Volunteers, and saving Canada in the process is the one that
will remain with the fledgling nation. He is the first Canadian war hero,
an Englishman who hated the provincial confines of the Canadas, who
looked with disdain on the civilian leaders, who despised democracy, the
militia, and the Indians, and who could hardly wait to shake the
Canadian mud from his boots and bid goodbye forever to York, Fort
George, Quebec, and all the stuffy garrison towns between. None of this
matters.
His monument will be erected on the ridge, not far from where he fell, by
the leaders of a colonial aristocracy intent on shoring up power against
republican and democratic trends seeping across the border. This Tuscan
pillar, 135 feet high, becomes the symbol of that power — of the British
way of life: the Loyalist way as opposed to the Yankee way. In 1840, a
disaffected Irish Canadian named Benjamin Lett, one of Willliam Lyon
Mackenzie's followers in his failed rebellion against an elitist autocracy,
determines on one last act of defiance and chooses the obvious site: he
blows up Brock's monument. The Family Compact cannot do without its
symbol, mounts a long public campaign, raises $50,000, builds a more
splendid monument, half as high again as its predecessor — taller, it is
said, than any other in the world save for Wren's pillar marking London's
Great Fire.
John Beverley Robinson, Strachan's protégé and the Compact's chief
justice, is on hand, of course, at the dedication, and so is his successor
and fellow subaltern in the Brave York Volunteers, Mr. Justice Archibald
McLean. Robinson's spectacular career dates from Queenston Heights
when, a mere law student of 21, he is named acting attorney-general of
the province to replace the mortally wounded Macdonell. ("I had as much
thought of being made Bey of Tunis," he recalled.) By Confederation the
field on which he and McLean did battle has become, in the words of
Canada Monthly, "one of Canada's sacred places" and the battle, in the
description of the Canadian nationalist George Denison, is "Canada's
glorious Thermopylae."
So Brock in death is as valuable to the ruling class as Brock in life. He will
not be remembered for his real contribution to the country: his military
prescience, his careful preparation for war during the years of peace, his
astonishing bloodless capture of an American stronghold. When
Canadians hear his name, as they often will over the years, the picture
that will form in their minds wil be of that final impetuous dash,
splendidly heroic but tragically foolish, up the slippery heights of
Queenston on a gloomy October morning.
The book starts out around 1807, and does a beautiful job of setting up
the reasons behind the start of the conflict, including Tippecanoe and
the Chesapeake incident.
It walks through the declaration of war, the early decisive British
victories, Brock's fall at Queenston and ends with the massacre at the
River Raisin. Berton's second novel, Flames Across the Border, covers the
second half of the war. It's a decent read, but the real magic is in this
first volume.
Excerpt
If you haven't read Berton's accounts of the capture of Detroit and the
battle of Queenston Heights, those two chapters alone are worth buying
the book for. Here's an excerpt from chapter 6, "Queenston Heights: The
End of Isaac Brock" describing the reaction to Brock's death (the
subheads are added by the editor and do not appear in the text):
The reaction to Brock's death
All of Canada is stunned by Brock's loss. His own soldiers, the men of the
49th who were with him in Holland and at Copenhagen, are prostrated
by the news. Of all the scenes of sorrow and despair that day, the most
affecting is the one reported by Lieutenant Driscoll of the 100th
Regiment, who had come up from Fort Erie to help direct artillery fire
against the American battery at Black Rock. At two that afternoon
Driscoll looks up to see a provincial dragoon gallop up, dishevelled,
without sword or helmet, his horse bathed in foam, his own body
spattered with mud.
One of Brock's veterans, a man named Clibborn, speaks up:
"Horse and man jaded, sir, depend upon it, he brings bad news."
Driscoll sends the veteran across to discover what message the dragoon
has brought. The soldier doubles over to the rider but returns at a
funereal pace, and Driscoll realizes that something dreadful has
occurred. He calls out:
"What news, Clibborn? What news, man? Speak out."
Clibborn walks slowly toward the battery, which is still maintaining a
brisk fire at the Americans across the river. Musket balls plough into the
ground around him; he does not seem to see them. He cannot speak,
can only shake his head. At last he slumps down on the gun platform,
his features dead white, his face a mask of sorrow.
Driscoll cannot stand the silence, shakes Clibborn by the shoulder:
"For heaven's sake, tell us what you know."
Clibborn answers at last, almost choking.
"The General is killed; the enemy has possession of Queenston Heights."
At those words, every man in the battery becomes paralysed. The guns
cease firing. These are the men of the 49th, all of whom have served
under Brock in Europe; they are shattered by the news. Some weep
openly. Others mourn in silence. Several begin to curse in frustration.
The sound of enemy cheers, drifting across the river, rouses them to
their duty. In a helpless rage over the death of their general, they
become demonic, loading, traversing and firing the heavy guns as if they
were light field pieces, flinging round after round across the river in an
attempt to avenge their former chief.
All over the province, similar expressions of grief are manifest. Glegg,
Brock's military aide, calls it a "public calamity." Young George Ridout of
the York Volunteers writes to his brother that "were it not for the death
of General Brock and Macdonell our victory would have been glorious…
but in losing our man… is an irreparable loss." Like many others, Ridout
is convinced that Brock was the only man capable of leading the divided
province. Samuel Jarvis crosses the lake to bring the news of the
tragedy to York where "the thrill of dismay… was something
indescribable."
In Quebec, an old friend, Anne Ilbert, who once volunteered to
embroider some handkerchiefs for the bachelor general so the
laundresses wouldn't steal them, writes to an acquaintance that "the
conquest of half the United States would not repay us for his loss… by
the faces of the people here you would judge that we had lost
everything, so general is the regret everyone feels for this brave man,
the victory is completely swallowed up in it." She fears for the future,
wonders what the troops will do under another commander, suspects
that Upper Canada will fall to the Americans before winter's end. "This is
the first real horror of war we have experienced. God send it may not
lead to a train of others."
Prevost, when he learns of his general's death, is so badly shaken that
he can scarcely hold the pen with which to report the tragedy to Sir John
Sherbrooke in Halifax. Yet he mentions the matter only briefly in that
letter. And later, when a dispatch reaches him quoting the Prince Regent
at some length on Brock's heroism and ability, he publishes in the
Quebecc Gazette the first non-committal sentence only, omitting phrases
about "an able and meritorious officer… who… displayed qualities
admirably adapted to awe the disloyal, to reconcile the wavering, and
animate the great mass of inhabitants against successive attempts by
the enemy to invade the province…."
Brock's funeral
Brock's body, brought back to Newark, lies in state for three days. His
funeral, in George Ridout's words, is "the grandest and most solemn
that I have ever witnessed or that has been seen in Upper Canada."
Brock's casket and Macdonell's are borne through a double line of
Indians and militia — 5,000 men resting on reversed arms. The twin
coffins are buried in the York bastion of the fort. Guns boom every
minute during the procession while across the river, at both Niagara and
Lewiston, the Americans fire a salute to their old enemy. Sheaffe, on
hearing the American guns, is overcome and says in a choked voice to
one of his officers that "noble minded as General Brock was, he would
have ordered the same had a like disaster befallen the enemy."
Upper Canada is numb, its people drawn closer by a common tragedy
that few outsiders can comprehend.
Brock's legacy
The picture of Brock storming the heights at Queenston, urging on the
brave York Volunteers, and saving Canada in the process is the one that
will remain with the fledgling nation. He is the first Canadian war hero,
an Englishman who hated the provincial confines of the Canadas, who
looked with disdain on the civilian leaders, who despised democracy, the
militia, and the Indians, and who could hardly wait to shake the
Canadian mud from his boots and bid goodbye forever to York, Fort
George, Quebec, and all the stuffy garrison towns between. None of this
matters.
His monument will be erected on the ridge, not far from where he fell, by
the leaders of a colonial aristocracy intent on shoring up power against
republican and democratic trends seeping across the border. This Tuscan
pillar, 135 feet high, becomes the symbol of that power — of the British
way of life: the Loyalist way as opposed to the Yankee way. In 1840, a
disaffected Irish Canadian named Benjamin Lett, one of Willliam Lyon
Mackenzie's followers in his failed rebellion against an elitist autocracy,
determines on one last act of defiance and chooses the obvious site: he
blows up Brock's monument. The Family Compact cannot do without its
symbol, mounts a long public campaign, raises $50,000, builds a more
splendid monument, half as high again as its predecessor — taller, it is
said, than any other in the world save for Wren's pillar marking London's
Great Fire.
John Beverley Robinson, Strachan's protégé and the Compact's chief
justice, is on hand, of course, at the dedication, and so is his successor
and fellow subaltern in the Brave York Volunteers, Mr. Justice Archibald
McLean. Robinson's spectacular career dates from Queenston Heights
when, a mere law student of 21, he is named acting attorney-general of
the province to replace the mortally wounded Macdonell. ("I had as much
thought of being made Bey of Tunis," he recalled.) By Confederation the
field on which he and McLean did battle has become, in the words of
Canada Monthly, "one of Canada's sacred places" and the battle, in the
description of the Canadian nationalist George Denison, is "Canada's
glorious Thermopylae."
So Brock in death is as valuable to the ruling class as Brock in life. He will
not be remembered for his real contribution to the country: his military
prescience, his careful preparation for war during the years of peace, his
astonishing bloodless capture of an American stronghold. When
Canadians hear his name, as they often will over the years, the picture
that will form in their minds wil be of that final impetuous dash,
splendidly heroic but tragically foolish, up the slippery heights of
Queenston on a gloomy October morning.