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The Story
of Isaac Brock
Hero, Defender and Saviour of Upper
Canada, 1812
By Walter R. Nursey
Published by William Briggs (1908, Toronto)
"By his unrivalled skill, by great
And veteran service to the state,
By worth adored,
He stood, in high dignity,
The proudest knight of chivalry, Knight of the Sword."
-- Coplas de Manrique.
A WORD TO THE READER
That Isaac Brock is entitled to rank as the foremost defender of the flag
Western Canada has ever seen, is a statement which no one familiar with
history can deny. Brock fought and won out when the odds were all
against him.
At a time when almost every British soldier was busy fighting Napoleon in
Europe, upon General Brock fell the responsibility of upholding Britain's
honour in America. He was "the man behind the gun"--the undismayed
man--when the integrity of British America was threatened by a
determined enemy.
His success can be measured by the fact that it is only since the war of
1812-14 that the British flag has been properly respected in the western
hemisphere. It is also a fact that after the capture of Detroit the Union Jack
became more firmly rooted in the affections of the Canadian people than
ever.
It must not be forgotten that the capture of this stronghold was almost as
far-reaching in its ultimate effect as the victory of Wolfe on the Plains of
Abraham, and was fraught with little, if any, less import to Canada. What
with the timidity of Prevost, and the tactical blunders of both himself and
Sheaffe, the immediate influence upon the enemy of the victories at Detroit
and Queenston was almost nullified. Had Brock survived Queenston, or
even had his fixed, militant policy been allowed to prevail from the first, it is
safe to say there would have been no armistice, no placating of a clever,
intriguing foe, and no two years' prolongation of the war. Had the
capitulation of Detroit, the crushing defeat at Queenston, and the
wholesale desertion of Wadsworth's cowardly legions at Lewiston, been
followed up by the British with relentless assault "all along the
line"--before the enemy had time to recover his grip--then our hero's
feasible plan, which he had pleaded with Prevost to permit, namely, to
sweep the Niagara frontier and destroy Sackett's Harbor--the key to
American naval supremacy of the lakes--could, there is no good reason to
doubt, have been carried out. The purpose of this little book is not,
however, to deal in surmises.
The story of Sir Isaac Brock's life should convey to the youth of Canada a
significance similar to that which the bugle-call of the trumpeter, sounding
the advance, conveys to the soldier in the ranks. Reiteration of Brock's
deeds should help to develop a better appreciation of his work, a truer
conception of his heroism, a wiser understanding of his sacrifice.
Many a famous man owes a debt of inspiration to some other great life
that went before him. Not until every boy in Canada is thoroughly familiar
with "Master Isaac's" achievements will he be qualified to exclaim with the
Indian warrior, Tecumseh,
NOTE.--Of the hundred and more books and documents consulted in a
search for facts I would register my special obligations to Tupper's "Life of
Brock"; Auchinleck's "History of the War of 1812-14"; Cruikshank's
"Documentary History," and Richardson's "War of 1812" (edited by
Casselman).
[Illustration: "VIEW OF ST. PETER'S PORT, GUERNSEY, 18 x 6"]
CHAPTER I.
OUR HERO'S HOME--GUERNSEY.
Off the coast of Brittany, where the Bay of Biscay fights the white horses of
the North Sea, the Island of Guernsey rides at anchor. Its black and yellow,
red and purple coast-line, summer and winter, is awash with surf, burying
the protecting reefs in a smother of foam. Between these drowned ridges
of despair, which warn the toilers of the sea of an intention to engulf them,
tongues of ocean pierce the grim chasms of the cliffs.
Between this and the sister island of Alderney the teeth of the Casquets
cradle the skeleton of many a stout ship, while above the level of the sea
the amethyst peaks of Sark rise like phantom bergs. In the sunlight the
rainbow-coloured slopes of Le Gouffre jut upwards a jumble of glory.
Exposed to the full fury of an Atlantic gale, these islands are well-nigh
obliterated in drench. From where the red gables cluster on the heights of
Fort George, which overhang the harbour, to the thickets of Jerbourg,
valley and plain, at the time we write of, were a gorgeous carpet of
anemones, daffodils, primroses and poppies.
These are tumultuous latitudes. Sudden hurricanes, with the concentrated
force of the German Ocean behind them, soon scourge the sea into a
whirlpool and extinguish every landmark in a pall of gray. For centuries
tumult and action have been other names for the Channel Islands. It is no
wonder that the inhabitants partake of the nature of their surroundings.
Contact with the elements produces a love for combat. As this little book is
largely a record of strife, and of one of Guernsey's greatest fighting sons, it
may be well to recall the efforts that preceded the birth of our hero and
influenced his career, and through which Guernsey retained its liberties.
For centuries Guernsey had been whipped into strife. From the raid upon
her independence by David Bruce, the exiled King of Scotland, early in
1300, on through the centuries up to the seventeenth, piping times of
peace were few and far between. The resources of the island led to
frequent invasions from France, but while fighting and resistance did not
impair the loyalty of the islanders, it nourished a love of freedom, and of
hostility to any enemy who had the effrontery to assail it. As a rule the
sojourn of these invaders was brief. When sore pressed in a pitched battle
on the plateau above St. Peter's Port, the inhabitants would retreat behind
the buttresses of Castle Cornet, when, as in the invasion by Charles V. of
France, the fortress proving impregnable, the besiegers would collect their
belongings and sail away.
In the fourteenth century Henry VI. of England, in consideration of a red
rose as annual rental, conveyed the entire group to the Duke of Warwick.
But strange privileges were from time to time extended to these audacious
people. Queen Elizabeth proclaimed the islands a world's sanctuary, and
threw open the ports as free harbours of refuge in time of war. She
authorized protection to "a distance on the ocean as far as the eye of man
could reach." This act of grace was cancelled by George the Third, who
regarded it as a premium on piracy. In Cromwell's time Admiral Blake had
been instructed to raise the siege of Castle Cornet. He brought its
commander to his senses, but only after nine years of assault, and not
before 30,000 cannon-balls had been hurled into the town.
Late in the fourteenth century, when the English were driven out of
France, not a few of those deported, who had the fighting propensity well
developed, made haste for the Channel Islands, where rare chances
offered to handle an arquebus for the King. Among those who sought
refuge in Guernsey there landed, not far from the Lion's Rock at Cobo, an
English knight, Sir Hugh Brock, lately the keeper of the Castle of Derval in
Brittany, a man "stout of figure and valiant of heart." This harbour of
refuge was St. Peter's Port.
"Within a long recess there lies a bay,
An island shades it from the rolling sea,
And forms a port."
The islet that broke the Atlantic rollers was Castle Cornet. Sir Hugh Brock,
or Badger in the ancient Saxon time--an apt name for a tenacious
fighter--shook hands with fate. He espied the rocky cape of St. Jerbourg,
and ofttimes from its summit he would shape bold plans for the future, the
maturing of which meant much to those of his race destined to follow.
The commercial growth of the Channel Islands has been divided into five
periods, those of fishing, knitting (the age of the garments known as
"jerseys" and "guernseys"), privateering, smuggling, and agriculture and
commerce. To the third period belong these records. The prosperity of the
islands was greatest from the middle of the seventeenth century up to the
overthrow of Napoleon at Waterloo and the close of Canada's successful
fight against invasion in 1815. During this period the building of ships for
the North Atlantic and Newfoundland trade opened new highways for
commerce, but the greatest factor in this development was the "reputable
business" of privateering, which must not be confounded either with
buccaneering or yard-arm piracy. It was only permitted under regular
letters of marque, was ranked as an honorable occupation, and those bold
spirits, the wild "beggars of the sea"--who preferred the cutlass and a
roving commission in high latitudes to ploughing up the cowslips in the
Guernsey valleys, or knitting striped shirts at home--were recognized as
good fighting men and acceptable enemies.
Trade in the islands, consequent upon the smuggling that followed and the
building of many ships, produced much wealth, creating a class of newly
rich and with it some "social disruption."
Notable in the "exclusive set," not only on account of his athletic figure and
handsome face, but for his winning manners and ability to dance, though
but a boy, was Isaac Brock. Isaac--a distant descendant of bold Sir
Hugh--was the eighth son of John Brock, formerly a midshipman in the
Royal Navy, a man of much talent and, like his son, of great activity. Brock,
the father, did not enjoy the fruit of his industry long, for in 1777, in his
49th year, he died in Brittany, leaving a family of fourteen children. Of ten
sons, Isaac, destined to become "the hero and defender of Upper
Canada," was then a flaxen-haired boy of eight.
Anno Domini 1769 will remain a memorable one in the history of the
empire. Napoleon, the conqueror of Europe, and Wellington, the conqueror
of Napoleon, were both sons of 1769. This same year Elizabeth de Lisle,
wife of John Brock, of St. Peter's Port, bore him his eighth son, the Isaac
referred to, also ordained to become "a man of destiny." Isaac's future
domain was that greater, though then but little known, dominion beyond
the seas, Canada--a territory of imperial extent, whose resources at that
time came within the range of few men's understanding. Isaac Brock, as
has been shown, came of good fighting stock, was of clean repute and
connected with most of the families of high degree on the Island. The de
Beauvoirs, Saumarez, de Lisles, Le Marchants, Careys, Tuppers and many
others distinguished in arms or diplomacy, were his kith and kin. His mind
saturated with the stories of the deeds of his ancestors, and possessed of
a spirit of adventure developed by constant contact with soldiers and
sailors, it was but natural that he became cast in a fighting mould and that
"to be a soldier" was the height of his ambition.
Perhaps Isaac Brock's chief charm, which he retained in a marked degree in
after life--apart from his wonderful thews and sinews, his stature and
athletic skill--was his extreme modesty and gentleness. The fine old maxim
of the child being "father to the man" in his case held good.
CHAPTER II.
SCHOOL AND PASTIMES.
Guernsey abounded in the natural attractions that are dear to the youth of
robust body and adventurous nature. Isaac, though he excelled in field
sports and was the admiration of his school-fellows, was sufficiently strong
within himself to find profit in his own society. In the thickets that
overlooked Houmet Bay he found solace apart from his companions. There
he would recall the stories told him of the prowess of his ancestor, William
de Beauvoir, that man of great courage, a Jurat of the royal court. Even
here he did not always escape intruders. Outside the harbour of St. Peter's
Port, separated by an arm of the sea, rose the Ortach Rock, between the
Casquets and "Aurigny's Isle," a haunted spot, once the abode of a
sorcerer named Jochmus. To secure quiet he would frequently visit this
isolated place, in spite of the resident devil, the devil-fish, or the devil-strip
of treacherous water which ran between.
He was not ten when, to the amazement of his friends in imitation of
Leander but without the same inducements, he swam the half mile to the
reefs of Castle Cornet and back again, through a boiling sea and rip-tides
that ran like mill-races. This performance he repeated again and again. For
milder amusement he would tramp to the water-lane that stole through
the Moulin Huet, a bower of red roses and perfume, or walk by moonlight
to the mystic cromlechs, where the early pagans and the warlocks and
witches of later days flitted round the ruined altars.
Though Isaac was self-contained and resolute he had a restless spirit.
Fearless, without a touch of the braggart, his courage was of the valiant
order, the quality that accompanies a lofty soul in a strong body. For his
constant courtesy and habit of making sacrifices for his friends, he was in
danger of being canonized by his school-fellows.
About this time, shortly after his father's death, it was suggested he
should leave the Queen Elizabeth School on the Island and study at
Southampton. Here he tried his best, boy though he was, to live up to the
standard of what he had been told were his obligations as a gentleman,
acquiring, too, a little book-learning and much every-day knowledge.
Isaac's holidays, always spent in his beloved Guernsey, increased the
thirst for adventure. The spirit of conquest, the controlling influence of his
after life, grew upon him. Something accomplished, something done, was
the daily rule. To scale an impossible cliff with the wings of circling sea-fowl
beating in his face, to land a big conger eel without receiving a shock, to
rescue a partridge from a falcon, to shoot a rabbit at fifty paces, to break a
wild pony, or even to scan a complicated line in his syntax--these were
achievements, small perhaps, but typical of his desire. His young soul was
stirred; the blood coursed in his veins as the sap courses in the trees of
the forest in spring; his mind, susceptible to the influences of nature, was
strengthened and purified by these pursuits.
In the shelter of silent trossach, on wind-swept height, or on wildest,
ever-restless sea, he would, as the mood seized him, take his solitary
outings. These jaunts, he told his mother, gave him time to reflect and
resolve. It was not strange that he selected a profession that presented
the opportunities he craved.
England with folded arms was at peace. The Treaty of Versailles had
terminated the disastrous war with America. The independence of the
"Thirteen States" had been recognized. The world was drawing a long
breath, filling its fighting lungs, awaiting the death struggle with Napoleon
for the supremacy of Europe. Yet the spirit of war lingered in the air. It
even drifted on the breeze across the Channel to Guernsey, and filtered
through the trees that crowned the Lion's Rock at Cobo. It invaded the
valleys of the Petit Bot and stirred the bulrushes in the marshes of Havelet.
The pulse of our hero throbbed with the subtle infection. Not with the
brute lust for other men's blood, but with the instinct of the true patriot to
shed, if need be, his own blood to maintain the right. He would follow the
example of his ancestors and fight and die, if duty called him, in defence of
king and country.
The sweet arrogance of youth uplifted him. Earth, air and water conspired
to encourage him. To satisfy this unspoken craving for action he would,
from his outlook on the Jerbourg crags--where bold Sir Hugh had sat for
just such purpose years before--watch the Weymouth luggers making bad
weather of it beyond the Casquets; or challenge in his own boat the
rip-tides between Sark and Brechou, and the combers that romped
between St. Sampson and the Isle of Herm.
There was no limit to this boy's hardihood and daring. The more furious the
gale the more congenial the task. Returning from these frequent baptisms
of salt water, his Saxon fairness and Norman freshness aglow with spray,
he would loiter on the beach to talk to the kelp gatherers raking amid the
breakers, and to watch the mackerel boats, reefed down, flying to the
harbour for shelter. The crayfish in the pools would tempt him, he would try
his hand at sand-eeling, or watch the surf men feed a devil-fish to the
crabs. Then up the gray benches of the furrowed cliffs, starred with silver
lichens and stone-crop, to where ploughmen were leaving glistening
furrows in the big parsnip fields. Then on through the tangle of
sweet-briar, honeysuckle and wild roses, where birds nested in the
perfumed foliage, until, the summit reached, surrounded by purple heather
and golden gorse, he would look on the sea below, with Sark, like a
"basking whale, burning in the sunset." Then he would hurry to tell his
mother of the day's exploits, retiring to dream of strange lands and
turbulent scenes, in which the roll of drums and roar of cannon seemed
never absent.
With his youthful mind possessed with the exploits of the King's soldiers in
Europe and America, and influenced by his brother John's example--then
captain in the 8th Regiment of the line--Isaac pleaded successfully to enter
the army. To better prepare for this all-important step, and to become
proficient in French, a necessary accomplishment, it was arranged, though
he was only fifteen, to place him with a Protestant clergyman in Rotterdam
for one year, to complete his education.
His vacations now were few; his visits to the Island flying ones. But the old
life still fascinated him. His physique developed as the weeks flew by, and
he became more and more a striking personality. This was doubly true, for
while he remained the champion swimmer, he was also the best boxer of
his class, besides excelling in every other manly sport. In tugs-of-war and
"uprooting the gorse" he had no equals, but a sense of his educational
deficiencies kept him at his books.
He had only passed his sixteenth birthday when, one wild March morning
in 1785, he was handed an important-looking document. It was a
parchment with the King's seal attached, his commission of ensign in the
8th Regiment. Isaac at once joined the regimental depot in England. It was
evident that his lack of learning would prove a barrier to promotion. He
found that much of the leisure hitherto devoted to athletic sports must be
given to study. Behind "sported oak," while dust accumulated on
boxing-glove and foil--neither the banter of his brother officers nor his love
for athletics inducing him to break the resolution--he bent to his work with
a fixity of purpose that augured well for his future.
In every man's life there are milestones. Isaac Brock's life may fairly be
divided into five periods. When he crossed the threshold of his Guernsey
home and donned the uniform of the King he passed his _first_ milestone.
CHAPTER III.
FROM ENSIGN TO COLONEL.
In every young man's career comes a time of probation. During this critical
period that youth is wise who enters into a truce with his feelings. This is
the period when influences for good or bad assert themselves--the parting
of the ways. The sign-posts are painted in capitals.
When Brock buttoned his scarlet tunic and strapped his sword on his hip,
as fine a specimen of a clean-bodied, clean-minded youth as ever trod the
turnpike of life, he knew that he was at the cross-roads. The trail before
him was well blazed, but straight or crooked, rough or smooth, valley or
height, it mattered little so long as he kept nourished the bright light of
purpose that burned steadily within him.
Five years of uneventful service, chiefly in England, passed by, and our
hero was celebrating his coming of age. His only inheritance was health,
hope and courage. While neither monk nor hermit, he had so far been as
steadfast as the Pole Star in respect to his resolutions. He had allowed
nothing to induce him to break the rules engraved on brass that he had
himself imposed. His mind had broadened, his spirits ran high, his
conscience told him that he was graduating in the world's university with
honour. His love for athletics still continued. He had the thews of a
gladiator, and in his Guernsey stockings stood six feet two inches. Add to
this an honest countenance, with much gentleness of manner and great
determination, and you have a faithful picture of Isaac Brock.
Upon obtaining his lieutenancy he returned to Guernsey, raised an
independent company, and exchanged into the 49th, the Royal Berkshires,
then stationed in Barbadoes. He now found himself looking at life under
new conditions. While the beauties of Barbadoes enchanted him, his duties
as a soldier were disappointing. They were limited to drill, dress parade,
guard mounting, the erection of new fortifications, and patrolling the coast
for vessels carrying prohibited cargoes.
Under the terms of a treaty made at Paris in 1773, United States produce
for British West Indian ports could only be carried by British subjects in
British ships. Britain's men-of-war were also authorized to seize any vessel
laden with produce for or from any French colony. Brock was a soldier, not
a policeman, and coast-guard duties palled upon him. His great diversion
was in calculating the probabilities of invasion by the French. In
expectation of this, the refortifying of the island was in progress. The
memory of Admiral d'Estaing's visit with his fleet from Toulon, and the
capture of St. Vincent, sent a chill through the island. The great victory by
the British Admiral Rodney, when he whipped a superior French fleet to a
standstill, was yet to come. Bastions and earthworks grew during the night
like mushrooms. While Brock chafed under restraint, he knew how to
improve the opportunity.
Fishing, shooting sea-fowl, and exploring the interior on horseback, were
Brock's chief pastimes. He became a fearless horseman. Mount Hillaby rose
1,200 feet above the Caribbean Sea. The very crest of its almost
impossible pinnacle Brock is said to have ascended on horseback. Between
Bridgetown, in Barbadoes, and Kingston, Jamaica, he divided his time, and
though monotonous, his life in the Windward Islands was not wholly void
of adventure.
Shortly after joining his regiment at Bridgetown our hero had his first affair
of honour, an opportunity to display his courage under most trying
conditions. A certain captain in the 49th was a confirmed duellist, with a
reputation of being a dead shot at short range. Resting upon his evil
record, this braggart had succeeded in terrorizing the garrison, and it was
soon Brock's turn to be selected for insult. But Isaac could not be bullied or
intimidated. He promptly challenged and was as promptly accepted.
The fateful morning arrived. In a lonely spot, palm-sheltered, and within
sight of the sea breaking upon the coral reefs, principals and seconds met.
There was no question in Brock's mind as to his duty--the duello at that
time was the recognized court of appeal. If its purpose as originally
designed had at times been infamously abused, it was still the one and
only arbiter through which insults had to be purged and from which, for the
"officer and gentleman," there was no escape.
Now Isaac, who was several inches taller and much bulkier than the
scoundrel who had insulted him, declined to become a shining mark at the
regulation twelve paces. He demanded from his fire-eating antagonist that
the duel proceed on equal terms. Whipping out his kerchief, cool as a
cucumber, his blue eyes steady and resolute, he insisted that _they both
fire across it_. The fairness of the proposal staggered the bully. The
chances were not sufficiently one-sided. If this plan was acted upon he
might himself be killed. He refused to comply. The code of honour and
garrison approval sustained Brock in his contention, and the refusal of the
professional killer to fight under even chances was registered in the
mess-room as the act of a coward, and he left the regiment by compulsion.
In Jamaica the continued strain of inactivity under which our hero fretted
told upon him, and he was struck down with fever, his cousin, Henry Brock,
lieutenant in the 13th Foot, dying in Kingston of the same pestilence. At
this time Isaac had as servant a soldier named Dobson, one of those
faithful souls who, true as steel, once installed in their master's affection,
remain loyal to the end. To the untiring attentions of this man Brock owed
his life. Deep and mutual respect followed, and the two became
inseparable. Where Brock went, there was Dobson, sharing his fortune
and all the hard knocks of his military campaigns, a fellowship ending only
with Dobson's death, shortly before his "beloved master" gave up his life
on Queenston Heights.
Tropical malaria is hard to shake off. Release from duty was imperative,
and as England was now calling for recruits, the War Office summoned
Brock, an alluring sample of a soldier, to whom was assigned the task of
licking the fighting country bumpkin--the raw material--into shape. This he
did, first in England, then in Guernsey and Jersey. A vision of our hero,
glorious in his uniform, was in itself sufficient to ensnare the senses of any
country yokel. It was a militant age.
When quartered in Guernsey, and from the same heights of Jerbourg
where but a few years before he was wont to sweep the ocean for
belated fishing smacks, Brock saw his kinsman, Sir James Saumarez, and
the white canvas of a small squadron, heave in sight from Plymouth Roads.
The British sailor had been ordered to ascertain the strength of the French
fleet. Saumarez' ships were far slower than those of the enemy, so,
feigning the greatest desire to fight, he lured his opponent by a clever
ruse. First he closed with him, and then, when his own capture seemed
inevitable, hauled his wind, slipped through a maze of reefs by an intricate
passage--long familiar to our hero--and found safety off La Vazon, where
the Frenchmen dare not follow.
In June, 1795, Brock purchased his majority, but retained his command of
the recruits. From toes to finger-tips Isaac was a soldier, bent on
mastering every detail of the profession of his choice. A year after the
return of the 49th to England, on the completion of his 28th year, he
became by purchase senior lieutenant-colonel of his regiment. High honour
and rapid promotion, considering that for five out of seven years' service
he had remained an ensign. He had learned to recognize opportunity, the
earthly captain of a man's fate.
"For every day I stand outside your door,
And bid you wake and rise to fight and win."
But Brock's position was no sinecure. The regiment was in a badly
demoralized condition. The laxity of the late commanding officer had
created a deplorable state of things. To restore the lost _morale_ of the
corps was his first duty. The thoroughness of his reforms can be best
understood by quoting the words of the Duke of York, who declared that
"out of one of the worst regiments in the service Colonel Brock had made
the 49th one of the best."
From the Commander-in-Chief of a nation's army to a colonel--not yet
thirty--of a marching regiment, this was an exceptional tribute.
Isaac's persistent endeavours were rapidly bringing their own reward.
[Illustration: NAVY HALL, REMNANT OF THE OLD "RED BARRACKS," NIAGARA,
1797]
CHAPTER IV.
EGMONT-OP-ZEE AND COPENHAGEN.
Meanwhile the war cloud in Europe was growing apace. Holland had been
forced into an alliance with France. War, no longer a spectre, but a grim
monster, stalked the Continent. Everywhere the hostile arts of Bonaparte
were rousing the nations. The breezes that had stirred the marshes of
Havelet and awakened in Brock a sense of impending danger, now a
furious gale, swept the empires. The roll of drums and roar of cannon that
Isaac had listened to in his boyhood dreams were now challenging in
deadly earnest. The great _reveille_ that was awakening the world was
followed by the British buglers calling to arms the soldiers of the King.
Notwithstanding the aversion of the English prime minister, Pitt, to
commence hostilities, war was unavoidable. One of the twelve battalions
of infantry selected for the front was the 49th. When the orders were read
for the regiment to join the expedition to Holland, wild excitement
prevailed in barracks. Active service had come at last. The parting of Brock
with his family was softened by maternal pride in his appearance.
The tunic of the 49th was scarlet, with short swallow-tails. The rolling
lapels were faced with green, the coat being laced with white, with a high
collar. The shako, which was originally surmounted by white feathers with
black tips, a distinction for services in the American war of 1776, at
Bunker's Hill and Brandywine, was, at Brock's special request, replaced by
a black plume. The officers wore their hair turned up behind and fastened
with a black "flash." The spectacle of Master Isaac thus arrayed, in all the
glory of epaulets and sabretache and the gold braid of a full colonel,
reconciled the inhabitants of St. Peter's Port to his departure.
By the end of August the first division of the British army, of which the 49th
was a unit, was aboard the transports in the Zuyder Zee, off the coast of
Holland, and early one morning, under the command of Sir Ralph
Abercrombie, with blare of trumpets and standards flying, they effected a
landing under the guns of the ships of the line, of which, with frigates and
sloops, there were well-nigh sixty. Brock had often listened to the roar of
shot and shell in target practice and sham fight, but of a cannonade of
artillery, where every shrieking cannon-ball was probably a winged
messenger of death, this was his first experience. He now learned that in
the music of the empty shell of experiment and the wicked screech of the
missiles of war there was an unpleasant difference. He did not wince, but
sternly drew himself together, thought of home, begged God's mercy, and
awaited the command to advance with an impatience that was physical
pain.
By four in the afternoon the Hilder Peninsula and its batteries had been
taken, but with a loss to the British of a thousand men. Brock could
scarcely believe that the enemy had retreated. This, however, was merely
a taste of war. The second division having arrived, the whole force of
nearly 20,000 men, under the Duke of York, started to make history. In the
last days of a stormy September 16,000 Russian allies reached the scene.
The fourth brigade, which included the 49th, was under the command of
General Moore--Sir John Moore, of Corunna fame. For several weeks the
waiting troops were encamped in the sand-hills without canvas and
exposed to biting storms. The capture of the city of Horn without
resistance hardly prepared our hero and his men for the stout opposition
at the battle of Egmont-op-Zee that followed.
Brock's brother, Savery, a paymaster to the brigade, though by virtue of
his calling exempt from field service, insisted on joining the fighting line,
acting as aide to Sir Ralph Abercrombie.
Every record, every line written or in print concerning Brock, from first to
last, all prove that the keynote of his success, the ruling impulse of his life,
was promptness and action. So, at Egmont, no sooner did the bugle sound
the advance than he was off with his men like a sprinter at the crack of the
pistol. Others might follow; he would lead. They were part of the advance
guard of a column of 10,000 men. The enemy was in front in superior
numbers, but their weakness lay in underrating the courage of the British.
They had been taught to consider English soldiers the most undisciplined
rabble in the world!
This was a factor unknown and unheeded by Brock. All that he knew was
that an obstacle barred the way.
"Steady, the 49th!"
The loud, clear notes of the leader rang above rasping of scabbards and
suggestive clank of steel. The men straightened. A suppressed exclamation
ran along the line and died to a whisper. Whispers faded into silence. A
fraction of a second, perhaps, and then, high above the stillness, when
British and French alike were silently appealing to the God of battles, over
steaming dyke and yellow sand-dunes rose once more in trumpet tones
the well-known voice, "Charge, men, and use your bayonets with
resolution!" No rules were followed as to the order of going--the ground,
to use Brock's words, was too rough, "like a sea in a heavy storm"--but the
dogs of war were let loose. The quarry was at bay. Another instant and
the air was split with yells, the clash of naked steel and screams of agony.
Then cheer upon cheer, as the British swept irresistibly on, and the enemy,
declining to face the glittering bayonets and unable to resist the impact of
the English, wavered, broke and retreated.
The shedding of men's blood by man is never an edifying spectacle. The
motive that prompts the attack or repels it, the blind obedience that entails
the sacrifice, the retribution that follows, are more or less understandable.
What of the compensation? There may be times when a pure principle is at
stake and must be upheld despite all hazards, but there are times when
there is no principle at stake whatever. These considerations, however,
have no place in the soldier's manual. They are questions for the court, not
the camp, and cannot be argued on the battlefield. The soldier is not
invited to reason why, though many an unanswerable question by a dying
hero has been whispered in the trenches.
There was much carnage at Egmont-op-Zee, and many a 49th grenadier
"lost the number of his mess." Isaac directly after the fight wrote to his
brothers that "Nothing could exceed the gallantry of his men in the
charge." To his own wound he referred in his usual breezy and impersonal
way. "I got knocked down," he said, "soon after the enemy began to
retreat, but never quitted the field, and returned to my duty in less than
half an hour."
We must appeal to his brother Savery for the actual facts. "Isaac was
wounded," said Savery, in reply to a request for particulars, "and his life
was in all probability preserved by the stout cotton handkerchief which, as
the air was very cold, he wore over a thick black silk cravat, both of which
were perforated by a bullet, and which prevented it entering his neck. The
violence of the blow, however, was so great as to stun and dismount him,
and his holsters were also shot through."
That the action had been a hot one can be best judged by the official
returns. Out of 391 rank and file of the 49th in the field, there were 110
casualties--30 killed, 50 wounded and 30 missing. Savery Brock shared the
honours with his brother. Oblivious to a hurricane of bullets, he rode from
sand-hill to sand-hill, encouraging the men until his truancy was noticed
and he was halted by Isaac.
"By the Lord Harry, Master Savery," shouted the colonel, loud as he could
pitch his powerful voice, as the big paymaster strode by, his horse having
been shot under him, "did I not order you, unless you remained with the
General, to stay with your iron chest? Go back, sir, immediately." To which
Savery answered, playfully, "Mind your regiment, Master Isaac. You surely
would not have me quit the field now." Of this intrepid brother Isaac wrote,
"Nothing could surpass Savery's activity and gallantry." Another of the
wounded at Egmont was Lord Aylmer, afterwards Governor-General of
British North America. The loss of the enemy was estimated at 4,000. Two
weeks later the British troops--while suffering intensely from severe
weather--met with a reverse in the field, to which, through a
misunderstanding of orders, their Russian allies contributed. The Duke of
York was ordered to evacuate the country. The campaign had resulted in
much experience and high honour for Brock. Quick to perceive and learn,
his powers of observation on the field had enriched his mind with lessons
in the tactics of war never to be forgotten.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF COLONEL JAMES FITZGIBBON]
In the ranks of the 49th was a young Irishman of superior talents. Brock
was not slow to discover his abilities, and "with a discrimination that
honoured both," he later appointed this combative private sergeant-major.
Still later he procured him an ensigncy in the 49th, finally appointing him
adjutant, promotion that the ability and gallantry of James FitzGibbon, a
Canadian veteran of 1812, and the "hero of Beaver Dams"
(Adjutant-General of Canada, 1837, and Military Knight of Windsor, 1851),
amply justified.
If Brock was quick to appreciate merit, he was no less so in detecting
defects. The Russian soldiers came in for scathing criticism. The type at
Egmont impressed him most unfavourably. The clumsy Russian foot-soldier
was his special aversion. The accuracy of his criticism has been confirmed
by military writers, but this book is not for the purpose of weighing the
quality of Russian valour in Holland. Six thousand of these Russian allies,
the lateness of the season preventing their return home, were later
quartered for six months in Guernsey.
While our hero was a severe military critic, he was never an unjust one,
neither did he spare his own men. Though not a martinet, which was
foreign to every fibre of his nature, he was a stickler for rigid discipline.
When the expedition was recalled, he was first quartered in Norwich, and
then at the old familiar barracks of St. Helier, in Jersey. On his return to the
latter place, in 1800, after leave of absence, he found that the junior
lieutenant-colonel of the 49th--Colonel Sheaffe--had incurred the
reasonable dislike of the men. The regiment was drawn up on the sands
for morning parade, standing at ease. In company with this unpopular
officer Brock appeared upon the scene. He was greeted with three hearty
cheers. The personal honour, however, was lost sight of in the act of
disobedience. Rebuking the men severely for "their most unmilitary
conduct," they were marched to quarters and confined to barracks for a
week. He would not, he explained, allow public exaltation of himself at the
expense of another.
The next year found our hero in the Baltic Sea, aboard the _Ganges_,
detailed for active duty as second in command of the land forces that
under Lord Nelson were ordered to the attack on Copenhagen. It was
intended that Brock, with the 49th, should lead in storming the Trekroner
(Three Crown) battery, in conjunction with five hundred seamen; but the
heroic defence by the Danes rendered the attempt impracticable, and
Brock remained on the _Ganges_, an unwilling spectator of bloodshed in
which he took no part. Towards the close of the engagement--the heaviest
pounding match in history--he was on the _Elephant_, Nelson's flagship,
and saw the hero of Trafalgar write his celebrated letter to the Crown
Prince of Denmark.
As at Egmont, the irrepressible conduct of Savery Brock on the _Ganges_
gave our hero much concern. Savery, as a former midshipman, was of
course a gunner. While training a quarter-deck gun on the Trekroner
battery his hat was blown from his head and he was knocked down by the
rush of wind from a grapeshot. Seeing this, Brock exclaimed, "Ah, poor
Savery! He is indeed dead." But, to use his own words, it was only "the
hot air from the projectile that had 'floored' him." Previous to this he had
driven Isaac almost demented by stating his intention of joining the
storming party and sharing his brother's danger. "Is it not enough that one
brother should be killed or drowned?" said Isaac. But Savery persisted
until, at Isaac's request, the commander of the _Ganges_ kept the
paymaster quiet by stratagem. "Master Savery," said he, "you simply
_must_ remain with us. I appoint you captain of the gun. It will amuse you."
The loss of the Danes at Copenhagen was placed at 6,000, including
prisoners. The British killed and wounded numbered 943, more than fell at
the Battle of the Nile. Part of this loss is charged to a criminal
misconception of military etiquette. To a line officer who asked where his
men should be stationed, the captain of the battleship replied, that as
soldiers were no good with big guns, and as the forts were out of musket
range, he should "send them between decks." This, said the infantryman,
"would be eternal disgrace." In deference to this brutal conception of
military ethics, the men were drawn up on the gangway and, standing at
attention, were allowed to be mowed down by Danish grapeshot. The
49th, on its return to England from Copenhagen, thoroughly initiated in the
cruel cult of war, was ordered to Colchester.
Isaac Brock, with the bay-leaves of distinction on his brow, and his heart
touched but not dismayed at the ferocity of war, had passed the _second_
milestone of his life.
CHAPTER V.
BROCK IN CANADA.
Isaac Brock received with regret his orders to proceed with the 49th to
Canada. Europe was still in the clutches of war. Great opportunities
awaited the soldier of fortune in the struggle waging in the Peninsula. The
prospect for military advancement in Canada was not encouraging. America
was at peace. Canada was but slowly developing. While her exports of
lumber and fish attracted the attention of the British merchant, her great
resources were unknown except to the fur trader and the few United
States speculators whose cupidity kept pace with their knowledge. Though
the known sympathy of the United States for France was regarded as a
possible excuse for hostility towards England, as yet this sympathy had
found no official utterance, hence the outlook from a soldier's standpoint
was far from desirable. Brock's life in the West Indies had created a
distaste for garrison duty. While a past master in the details of barrack life,
his career under arms had created an aversion for the grind of drill and
parade.
Life in the high latitudes of Canada would present a clean-cut contrast to
tropical Barbadoes, but it was out of harmony with his ambition, and,
judging by his spirits, he might have been embarking for penal servitude at
Botany Bay rather than for the land which was to bring him lasting fame.
Even the attentions of the devoted Dobson, who had just filled his pipe,
did not serve to arouse him. Brock's depression was short-lived. His
optimism and faith banished gloomy thoughts. The ship had hardly
dropped the last headland of the Irish coast when the winds bred in
Labrador awoke the Viking strain in him and filled his soul with hope. The
swinging seas of this northern ocean revived thoughts of the long-ago
exploits of Sebastian Cabot, the discoverer of Newfoundland, and of his
own sea-dog ancestors, those rough-riders of the sea who had defied the
banks of Sable Island and returned to St. Peter's Port with their rich
cargoes of contraband, looking innocent as kittens, while the ship was
bursting with fur, fin and feather. So, pipe in mouth, with the frigate
close-hauled, watching her bows splintering the sea into a million jewels,
he left care behind, and thenceforward his busy brain was forming plans
that would soften his exile in that land of chilling promise he was
approaching.
He had been told to expect magnificent scenery, but was quite unprepared
for the picture that the Gulf of St. Lawrence unfolded. The Straits of Belle
Isle, the Magdalen Islands, the brazen bosom of the Bay of Chaleur that
had allured Jacques Cartier 265 years before, the might of the noble river
and the glorious vista of the citadel and frowning heights of Quebec,
where Wolfe and Montcalm fell--the ancient Stadacona framed in the
sunset--amazed him. A presage of coming conflict crowded his brain.
"Manfully tell me the truth."
Carr, an educated soldier of the 49th, was hesitating. Desertions had been
frequent at Quebec, and discipline _must_ be restored. Stepping up, with
hand clenched, the officer continued, "Don't lie! Tell the truth like a man.
You know I have ever treated you kindly." The confession of intended
desertion followed. "Go, then," said Colonel Brock,--"go and tell your
deluded comrades everything that has passed here, and also that I will
still treat every man of you with kindness, and then you may desert me if
you please."
During the three years of his command at Montreal, York, Fort George and
Quebec, though mutiny was epidemic in both Europe and America, Brock
had lost but one man by desertion. He had won the loyalty of the rank and
file. FitzGibbon said of him that "he created by his judicious praise the
never-failing interest of the men in the ranks." His accurate knowledge of
human nature served him in the graver experiences of life which followed.
His stay in Quebec was short. A study of the ancient citadel and its
incomplete fortifications occupied his time. In the summer of 1803 he was
stationed at York, a hamlet carved out of the backwoods, sustaining a
handful of people, but famous as the gathering-place of many wise men.
He found that desertions in Upper Canada had become too frequent. The
temptations offered by a long line of frontier easy of access, and the
desperate discipline in the army, had led to much brutality in the way of
punishments.
Such were the conditions in Upper Canada when Brock reached York.
Shortly after his arrival six men, influenced by an artificer, stole a military
batteau and started across the lake to Niagara. By midnight Brock, with his
trusty sergeant-major and the ever-watchful Dobson, in another batteau
with twelve men, passed out of the western gap in hot pursuit of the
defaulters. Though the night was calm the trip was perilous. Before them
stretched a waste of water, but our hero was in his element. He was living
over again his daring visits to the Casquets through the furious seas that
raced between St. Sampson and the Isle of Herm.
The crew was divided into "watches," six taking an hour's "breather" while
the other six rowed, hour and hour about, alternately rowing and resting.
When the wind served they hoisted their big square sail, our hero at the
tiller. On this occasion there was little wind, and "Master Isaac," for
example's sake, and "to keep my biceps and fore-arm in good
condition"--as he told the sergeant-major--took his regular spells at the
oar. On arriving at Fort George, Colonel Hunter, Governor and
Commandant, rebuked him for rashly venturing across the lake in an open
boat, "a risk," he said, "never before undertaken."[1] The expedition,
however, was successful, for the deserters were surprised on the
American shore and made prisoners.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Lake Ontario was crossed from Toronto to the wharf at the mouth of
the Niagara River in an ordinary double-scull, lap-strake pleasure-skiff, by
the writer and another Argonaut--Herbert Bartlett--one unruly morning in
the summer of 1872. Though a risky row, and not previously attempted, it
was not regarded as a remarkable feat by the performers.
[Illustration: VIEW OF QUEENSTON ROAD, ABOUT 1824]
CHAPTER VI.
BRIDLE-ROAD, BATTEAU AND CANOE.
The means for transit through Canada at this time was most primitive, and
not the least of the questions which occupied Brock's thoughts was the
important one of transportation. The lack of facilities for moving large
bodies of men and supplies, in event of war, was as apparent as was the
lack of vessels of force on lake and river.
Between Quebec and Montreal, a distance of sixty leagues, the overland
journey was divided into twenty-four stages, requiring four relays of
horse-caleches in summer and horse-carioles in winter. The time occupied
was three days, and the rate for travellers twenty-five cents a league. This
rough road--which entailed numerous ferries in summer at the Ottawa and
at Lake St. Francis, except for a break of fifty miles--led by Cornwall and
Prescott to Kingston, along which route United Empire Loyalists twenty
years before had established themselves.
A few years prior to Brock's arrival, Governor Simcoe, with the men of the
Queen's Rangers, had cut a roadway through the dense forest between
Prescott and Burlington, at the head of Lake Ontario. From Ancaster, the
then western limit of the U.E. Loyalists' settlement, this road traversed the
picturesque region that surrounded the Mohawk village on the Grand River,
where Joseph Brant, the famous warrior, was encamped with his Six
Nation Indians. From this point it penetrated the rolling lands of the
western peninsula, to the La Trenche (the Thames River), from whence
Lake St. Clair and the Detroit outlet to the great lakes was reached by
water. Another military road, also built by Simcoe, followed the old Indian
trail through thirty-three miles of forest from York to Lake Simcoe. This
shorter route to Lake Superior enabled the North-West Fur
Company--established by Frobisher and McTavish, of Montreal, in 1776--to
avoid canoeing up the Ottawa and its tortuous tributaries. The batteaux
were brought up the St. Lawrence, breaking bulk at certain "carrying
places," then under sail up Lake Ontario to York. From here the cargoes
were hauled by horses over Yonge's military road to Lake Simcoe, thence
by river and stormy Lake Huron to Fort Michilimackinac, Great Turtle
Island--the Mackinaw of to-day--at the head of Lake Michigan. By this route
fifty dollars was saved on every ton of freight from Ottawa to the middle
north. At Mackinaw the goods were reshipped by bark canoe to the still
remoter regions in the further West, where Spanish pedlars on the
southern tributaries of the lower Mississippi traded with the Akamsea
Indians in British goods distributed from Mackinaw.
The records of these trips through a wilderness of forest and stream, with
their exhilarating hardships, had a singular fascination for Isaac Brock. It
was not long before he had won, with his conquering ways and robust
manhood, the allegiance of the big-hearted fur-traders in Montreal. Their
wild legends of the great fur country rang in his ears, and his receptive
mind was soon stored with the exploits of Radisson and Groseillers,
Joliette, Marquette, and other famous pathfinders, with whose exploits a
century and a half before, aided by his fluency in French, he became
wonderfully familiar.
He found the evolution of the Canadian highway a subject of absorbing
interest. From his Caughnawaga guides he learned how the tracks made
by lynx and beaver, rabbit and wolverine, wolf and red deer--invariably the
safest and firmest ways--were in turn naturally followed by Indian
voyageur and fur-trader, until the blazed trail became the bridle-road for
the pack-horse of the pioneer. This, as the white settler drifted in, became
the winter-road; then, as civilization stifled the call of the wild, there
uprose from swamp and muskeg the crude corduroy, expanding by
degrees into the half-graded highway, until the turnpike and toll-bar, with
its despotic keeper, exacted its tribute from progress. This was the prelude
to a still more amazing transformation, for the day soon came, though not
in our hero's time, when the drumming of the partridge was silenced by the
choo-choo of the locomotive as it shrieked through forest and
beaver-meadow on its way to vaster tracks, further and further west,
disclosing and leaving in its trail an empire of undreamed-of fertility. Then
the redman, disturbed in his solitudes, was confronted with civilization, and
had to accept the terms of conquest or seek another sanctuary in the
greater wilderness beyond.
The navigation of the lakes and rivers at this time was limited to three
types of vessel, the "snow," a three-master with a try-sail abaft the
mainmast, the schooner, the batteau and the birch canoe, and, in closely
land-locked waters, the horse ferry. The Durham boat, a batteau on a
larger scale with false keel, had yet to be introduced. The bark canoe,
which for certain purposes has never been improved upon--not even
excepting the cedar-built canoe--varied in size from nine to thirty feet, or,
in the language of the voyageur, from one and a half to five fathoms.
These canoes had capacity for a crew of from one to thirty men, or a cargo
of seventy "pieces" of ninety pounds each, equal to three tons, exclusive
of provisions for nine paddlers. In these arks of safety, manned by Indians
or _metis_ (half-breeds), the fur-trader would leave Lachine, on the St.
Lawrence, ascend the Ottawa, descend the French, cross Lake Huron--the
Lake Orleans of Nicollet and Hennepin--and find no rest from drench or
riffle until he reached Mackinaw, or more distant Fort Dearborn (now
Chicago), on the Skunk River, at the head of Lake Michigan, 1,450 miles by
water from Quebec.
The batteaux--great, open, flat-bottomed boats, forty feet long and eight
feet beam, pointed at stem and stern--were not unlike the York boats used
in Lord Wolseley's Red River expedition in 1870, and would carry five tons
of cargo. Rigged with a movable mast stepped almost amid-ships, and a
big lug-sail, these greyhounds of the lakes were, for passengers in our
hero's time, often the only means of water transport between Quebec and
Little York. As important factors in the transport of soldiers and munitions
in the war of 1812, they deserve description.
While sailing well when before the wind, they yet, with their defective rig
and keelless bottoms, carrying no weather helm, made little headway with
the wind close abeam. On one occasion Isaac Brock left Lachine with a
brigade of five batteaux, so that all hands could unite in making the
portages. At the Cascades, the Milles Roches and the Cedars,
three-quarters of the cargo had to be portaged by the packmen. At times
these lightened boats were poled or tracked through the broken water,
towed by the men, from such foothold as the rocky banks afforded, by
means of a long lariat tied to the boat's bow, with loops over each
trackman's shoulder, one man steering with a long sweep. When this
treadmill work was impossible, owing to too steep banks, and where no
batteau locks existed, the crew hauled the boats across the portage on a
skidway of small rolling logs, and, so journeying, Prescott was reached.
Here, the wind being favourable, lug-sails were hoisted and Brock's
strange fleet started for Kingston, reaching it after twelve days' toil from
Lachine, then coasting further along Lake Ontario to Little York (Toronto).
When wind failed, the long oars were used, the men rising from the
thwarts to pull, standing. Thus, alternately sitting and rising, pulling in
unison, the light-hearted voyageurs would break into one of their wild
French chants, quaint with catching refrain, in which our hero soon learned
to join.
At Prescott Brock sometimes took the Government schooner, paying two
guineas for a trip, which might last a week, or caught one of the small
"two-stickers" that carried freight between Kingston and Queenston. If
much pressed for time, the batteau would be exchanged for a caleche--the
stage-coach was as yet only a dream--and he would resign himself to a
rude jolting over the colonization road through the forest that flanked the
rugged northern shore of Lake Ontario.
These trips were a never-failing source of surprise and profit. The skill of
the canoemen, the strength and endurance of the packmen, excited his
admiration. What wonderful raw material! Given drill and discipline, what
might not be achieved on the frontier with such craftsmen! The muscles, all
whipcord, of these rugged Canadians, part _coureur de bois_, part scout,
amazed him. One thing was not so evident as he could have wished. Their
love seemed to be more for race and language, home and wilderness, than
for King and country. Perhaps, as he said, if the safety of their homes were
threatened, they would develop patriotism of the highest type.
But, after all, as to kings, "Who," they naively asked him, "was their king?
Surely they must be under two flags and two kings. Napoleon or George?
_Que voulez vous?_"
As their hearts seemed to be as stout as their limbs, they would, he
reflected, be unconquerable, these careless children of waste places. While
Brock thus communed, he watched. There was little to choose between
them--Narcisse, Baptiste, Louis, Jacques, Pierre--all strong as buffalo, all
agile as catamounts.
They would lift the "pieces" from the dripping canoe and land them on the
slippery rock. A minute later and Narcisse perhaps would appear, a bit
bent, to keep balanced a bag of flour, a chest of tea, a caddy of tobacco
and sundry packages of sugar or shot that made up the load resting on his
shoulders where body and nape of neck joined. This load was supported
and held together by a broad moose-hide band--a tump-line--strapped
across his forehead, his upraised hands grasping the narrowing
moose-hide stretched on either side of his lowered head, between ear and
shoulder. Brock would watch these packmen as, thus handicapped with a
load weighing from two to five hundred pounds, they set out across the
rough portage, singing, and at a dog trot, following each other in quick
succession. There was rivalry, of course, duly encouraged by Brock with a
promise of tobacco to the first man in, but it was all good-natured
competition, the last man chanting his laughing canzonet as loudly as the
first.
Our hero, with his grand physique and cleverness, was not long in
mastering the tricks of the carriers. He soon learned to build up a load and
adjust a tump-line, after which practice made the carrying of a pack almost
twice his own weight a not extraordinary performance.
These trips afforded Brock an opportunity to study Indian character. He
learned much from the packman and voyageur that was destined to be of
great value to him in his career on the western frontier, among the
outposts of civilization.
Little escaped his notice. His faculties were sharpened by contact with
these children of the wilds, whose only class-room was the forest, their
only teacher, nature. As the crushed blade or broken twig were of deepest
import to the Indian scout, so no incident of his life was now too trivial for
Brock to dismiss as of no importance.
CHAPTER VII.
MUTINY AND DESERTION.
Brock could hardly reconcile the degree of punishment inflicted upon the
soldiers, the poorly paid defenders of the Empire, with their casual
offences. While he rebelled against the brutalities of some officers, he was
powerless to prevent them. The sentencing powers conferred by
court-martial were at that time beyond belief. A captain and two subalterns
could order 999 lashes with a "cat" steeped in brine. It is on record that on
one occasion a soldier was sentenced to 1,500 lashes for "marauding."
And there were other modes of torture. This was close upon the heels of a
period when even the slightest breaches of the civil law were punished out
of all proportion to the offence. While insisting on the strictest discipline,
Brock always tempered justice with mercy. Few men better realized the
value of a pleasant word or had in such degree the rare tact that
permitted familiarity without killing respect.
A terrible incident occurred in the summer of 1803 which tested all Brock's
fortitude and conception of duty. A conspiracy to mutiny was discovered at
Fort George on the Niagara River. The methods of the commanding officer
had exasperated the men until they planned mutiny on a large scale. This
included the murder of Colonel Sheaffe and the incarceration of the other
officers. A threatening remark by a soldier of the 49th was overheard. He
was arrested and put in irons. A confession by another soldier implicated a
well-known sergeant, and a message was sent to York begging Brock's
immediate presence.
Our hero landed from the schooner alone. It was dinner hour. The
barrack-square, as Brock crossed it to the guard-house, was deserted. In
charge of the guard he found two of the suspected ringleaders. The guard
presented arms. "Sergeant," said the colonel of towering frame and
commanding aspect, "come here. Lay down your pike." The order was
promptly complied with. "Take off your sword and sash and lay them down
also." This was done. "Corporal O'Brien," said the colonel, addressing the
sergeant's brother-conspirator, "bring a pair of handcuffs, put them on this
sergeant, lock him up in a cell, and bring me the key." This, too, was done.
"Now, corporal, you come here; lay down your arms, take off your
accoutrements, and lay them down also." He was obeyed. Turning to the
right man of the guard, "Come here, you grenadier. Bring a pair of
handcuffs and put them on this corporal, lock him up in another cell, and
bring me the key." When this was done, turning to the astounded
drummer, our hero said, "Drummer, beat to arms."
The garrison was aroused. First to rush out was Lieutenant Williams,
sword in hand. "Williams!" said the Colonel, "go instantly and secure
Rock"--a former sergeant, recently reduced. "If he hesitates to obey, even
for one second, cut him down." Up the stairs flew Williams, calling to Rock
to come down. "Yes, sir," answered Rock, "when I take my arms." "You
must come without them," said Williams. "Oh, I must have my arms, sir,"
and as Rock stretched out his hand to seize his musket in the arm-rack,
Williams shouted, "If you lay one finger on your musket I will cut you
down," at the same time drawing his sabre. "Now, go down before me."
Rock obeyed, was placed in irons, and within half an hour Clark, O'Brien,
and nine other mutineers were embarked for York on the schooner.
What a picture rises before us. The mid-day sun, the glittering
barrack-square, the scarlet and white tunics and polished side-arms of the
frightened soldiers, with Brock, the embodiment of power and stern justice,
towering above the shrinking culprits. Expiation of the offence had yet to
follow. The appetite of the law had to be appeased. The trial took place at
Quebec. Four mutineers and three deserters were condemned to death,
and in the presence of the entire garrison were executed. The details of
this are best unwritten. Through a shocking blunder, the firing party
discharged their carbines when fifty yards distant, instead of advancing to
within eight yards of the victims. The harrowing scene rent Brock's heart.
That the men who had fought so bravely under him at Egmont and laughed
at the carnage at Copenhagen should end their lives in this manner was
inexpressibly sad. After reading the account of the execution of their
comrades to the men on parade at Fort George, Brock added, "Since I have
had the honour to wear the British uniform I have never felt grief like this."
The prisoners publicly declared that had they continued under our hero's
command they would have escaped their doom, "being the victims of
unruly passions inflamed by vexatious authority."
When Brock assumed command every possible privilege was extended to
the troops at Fort George. For every request, however trivial, he knew
there was some reason. His mind was big enough to trade in trifles.
In view of these desertions, the prospect of hostilities between Canada
and the United States became a momentous one. By close study of events
in France and America and intercourse with prominent United States
citizens, Brock detected the signs that precede trouble.
But the grave question of desertion and the war-cloud on the horizon
could not occupy our hero's attention to the exclusion of other demands
upon his time. Canada's growing importance was attracting many
travellers from over-seas. Notable among these was Thomas Moore, the
brilliant Irish poet, who was our hero's guest at Fort George for two weeks
in the summer of 1803. Every attraction that the peninsula presented was
taxed for his entertainment. Of these diversions the one which probably
left the most lasting impression on the versatile son of Erin was a
gathering of the Tuscarora warriors, under Chief Brant, at the Indian
encampment on the Grand River.
"Here," wrote Moore, in one of his celebrated epistles, "the Mohawks
received us in all their ancient costumes. The young men ran races for our
amusement, and gave an exhibition game of ball, while the old men and
the women sat in groups under the surrounding forest trees. The scene
altogether was as beautiful as it was new to me. To Colonel Brock, in
command of the fort, I am particularly indebted for his many kindnesses
during the fortnight I remained with him."
It was while Moore was paddling down the St. Lawrence with his
Caughnawaga voyageurs, after leaving Niagara--where he saw the
fountains of the great deep broken up--that he composed his celebrated
boat-song:
"Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!"
In the fall of 1805 our hero was gazetted full colonel, and returned to
England on leave. While he had lost none of the buoyancy of his youth, he
was daily realizing the fullness of his responsibilities.
For the better defence of Canada, he submitted to the Duke of York, the
Commander-in-Chief, a suggestion for the forming of a veteran battalion.
He quoted the case of the U.E. Loyalists, who after the Revolutionary war,
had been granted small tracts in Upper Canada; contrasting their perfect
conduct with the practices of some of the settlers ten years later, whose
loyalty, from his own observation, would not stand the test. Our hero, who
was warmly thanked by the Duke for his zeal, was now regarded as a
person to be reckoned with. His abilities and charm of manner had won him
a reputation at the Horse Guards.
He returned to Guernsey to receive the congratulations of those brothers
"who loved him so dearly," but had not time to tell the graphic story of his
sojourn in Canada or revisit the haunts of his boyhood, for news arrived
from the United States of so warlike a character that he returned before
his leave expired. He overtook at Cork the _Lady Saumarez_, a
well-manned Guernsey privateer, armed with letters of marque, and bound
for Quebec. Leaving London on the 26th of June, 1806, he set sail for
Canada, never to return to those to whom he had so endeared himself by
his splendid qualities.
[Illustration: RUINS OF OLD POWDER MAGAZINE, FORT GEORGE]
CHAPTER VIII.
FRANCE, THE UNITED STATES AND CANADA.
Shortly after his return to Quebec, Isaac Brock succeeded to the command
of the troops in both Upper and Lower Canada, with the pay and
allowance of a brigadier.
Though no overt act had been committed against Canada by the United
States, relations were strained, and he found much to occupy his time. His
humanity stirred, he set about erecting hospitals, reorganized the
commissariat department, and engaged in an unpleasant dispute with
President Dunn, the civil administrator of Lower Canada, regarding the
fortifications of the Citadel. To-day deep in plans for mobilizing the militia
and the formation of a Scotch volunteer corps of Glengarry settlers;
to-morrow devising the best way of utilizing an Indian force in the event of
war. In June, 1807, the affair between the British gunboat _Leopard_ and
the American frigate _Chesapeake_ occurred. The former boarded the
latter in search of deserters, and on being challenged, gave the
_Chesapeake_ a broadside. While the _Leopard_ was clearly in the wrong,
the United States Government rejected every offer of reparation made by
Britain. Then came retaliation. French vessels--though France was at war
with Britain--were actually allowed by the United States, a neutral power,
full freedom of its harbours. The ships of Britain, a power at peace with the
United States of America, were refused the same privilege.
For a proper understanding of the position we must unroll a page of
history. Napoleon, though he crushed the Prussians at Jena, could not
efface the memory of his own humiliation at Trafalgar. His ears tingled. He
was waiting to deliver a blow that would equalize the destruction of his
fleet by Nelson. Though Britain remained mistress of the seas, surely,
thought the "little corporal," a way could be found to humble her. If her
sources of food supply, for instance, could be cut off, "the wings of her
war-ships would be clipped."
To this end Napoleon issued an arrogant proclamation, which was of
far-reaching effect. It authorized the destruction of all British goods and all
colonial produce shipped to any European port by a British vessel. It
allowed the seizure by France of all ships, of whatever nation, which had
even _called_ at a British port. To this the United States raised no
objection, though it was in violation of the world's law in respect to nations
which were at peace with each other. The United States' President
evidently believed that British resentment at Napoleon's decree would
sooner or later provide the United States with an excuse for a
disagreement with Britain. He was not mistaken. Britain at once announced
that she in her turn would prohibit the ships of other nations visiting
French ports until they had first called at a British port. But two wrongs do
not make a right. England also, being short of seamen by desertion,
insisted that she had the right to search for British seamen on American
vessels.
This was a questionable proceeding, and not always carried out in the
most amiable manner, as the _Chesapeake_ incident proves, and
occasionally led to seizing American seamen, native-born citizens of the
United States, in mistake for British-born deserters.
Meanwhile Brock found "the military and the people of Quebec divided by
opposing elements of dissatisfaction." His call for one thousand men for
two months to complete the defences of the Citadel was met by the
Provincial Government with what was practically a refusal. He persisted in
his purpose, and despite drawbacks which would have deterred a less
dominant nature, he erected a battery, mounting eight thirty-six pound
guns, raised upon a cavalier bastion, in the centre of the Citadel, so as to
command the opposite heights of Point Levis.
Alive to the probability of invasion, and to the defenceless state of the
Canadian frontier and the extreme apathy of the Quebec Government,
Colonel Brock warned the War Office. He stated that, as the means at his
disposal were quite inadequate to oppose an enemy in the field, with a
provincial frontier of 500 miles, he would perforce confine himself to the
defence of the city of Quebec. The Lower Canadians, willing to undergo
training, had formed themselves into corps of cavalry, artillery and infantry,
at no expense to the Government, but the Government gave them no
encouragement.
This was the state of affairs in Quebec when Lieutenant-General Sir James
Craig arrived to take office as Governor-General of the British Provinces in
North America as well as Commander of the Forces. Brock soon became the
_confidant_ of the new administrator, who was not slow to observe the
exceptional capacity of our hero. The day came all too quickly for the
Governor when occasion arose for the presence of a strong man to take
command in Montreal, and with great reluctance he had to call upon Isaac
Brock to assume the office.
CHAPTER IX.
FUR-TRADERS AND HABITANTS.
Montreal--the Mount Royal of Jacques Cartier--was then in the heyday of
its pioneer glory. It was the seat of government of the North-West
Company, which exercised feudal sway over an empire of wilderness, lake
and prairie, and whose title to monopoly was challenged only by the
powerful Hudson's Bay Company. Since 1670 this older syndicate of
adventurers had held the destinies of the great lone land in the farther
North-West, its fruitful plains and pathless forests, in the hollow of its
hand. Later, when the two companies amalgamated, their joint operations
extended from Alaska to Rupert's Land, from Oregon to the Sandwich
Islands, from Vancouver to Labrador, an empire embracing an area of
4,500,000 square miles.
At Montreal Brock lived with these merchant princes on terms of close
intimacy. He was sensible enough, as a man of the world, to enjoy the
creature comforts of life. The blazing log-fire, with its glow and crackle, in
contrast to the blizzard that raged outside; the dim-lighted splendour of
spacious dining-hall, with hewn rafters and savage trophies of the
explorers; the polished oak floor and carved ceiling, hung with rare fur and
gaudy feathers, appealed to him.
The rubber of whist over, came the fragrant _perfecto_--these traders
ransacked the world for their tobacco--and Brock, under the influence of
the soothing weed, would charm these wild vagrants into unlocking some
of the strange secrets of the wilderness. From these usually silent but
sometimes garrulous merchants he acquired during the long winter nights
a fund of facts that greatly influenced his future actions.
Being superseded at Montreal by General Drummond, he did not relish a
return to Quebec. Separation from the 49th meant actual pain, but, as he
said, "Soldiers must accustom themselves to frequent movements, and as
they have no choice, it often happens they are placed in situations little
agreeing with their wishes." His regrets were lessened by his promotion to
the rank of brigadier-general. But he prayed for active service, still trying to
secure a staff appointment in Portugal, and awaited the result of his
brother Savery's efforts, hoping he might yet be ordered to join "the best
disciplined army that ever left England."
"Your Excellency," he said to the Governor-General, "I _must_ see active
service, or had much better quit the army, for I can look for no advantage if
I remain buried in inaction in this remote corner of the earth, without the
least mention ever likely being made of me."
Unsuspected by our hero, fate in his case was only "marking time."
Day after day Brock saw British ships weigh anchor at Quebec with
Canadian timber for the building of English vessels of war. The importance
of these Canadian provinces to Great Britain awoke in him dreams of a
federation of all the colonies. Cargoes of timber, that would require more
than 400 vessels to transport, were then lying on the beaches of the St.
Lawrence. "Bonaparte," he wrote, "coveted these vast colonial areas, and
desired to repossess them."
Brock's mind was busy trying to solve these problems. "A small French
force of 5,000 men," he told the Governor, "could most assuredly conquer
the Province of Quebec. In the event of French invasion, would the volatile
Lower Canadian people, in spite of all their privileges, remain loyal?" A
certain class of _habitant_ argued that Napoleon, who was sure to
conquer Europe, would of course seize the Canadas, encouraged by the
United States. "Would Englishmen," asked Brock, "if positions were
reversed, be any more impatient to escape from possible British rule than
were French Canadians from the possible rule of France?"
"Blood, my good FitzGibbon," he declared to his _protégé_, "is thicker than
water. You cannot expect to get men to change their nature, or the
traditions of their race, through an act of parliament at twenty-four hours'
notice. Old thoughts and habits die hard."
Though Brock's perceptive faculties were well developed, his forecasts,
built upon the evidences of opposition among certain Lower Canadians,
happily proved only in part correct. Later, when his plan of campaign was
menaced by still greater disaffection in Upper Canada, he found he had not
reckoned on the influence of his own example, which, added to his power
of purpose, "disconcerted the disloyal." In proof of this fact Detroit and
Queenston Heights were splendid examples.
It was this spirit of unrest among the people of Quebec that moved Sir
James Craig to keep Brock within easy reach until the growing discord in
Upper Canada called for the presence of a man of tact and resolution, one
to whom all things seemed possible--and Brock knew no such word as
"impossible." On one occasion the "faithful sergeant-major" had ventured
to declare that a certain order was "impossible." "'Impossible!'" repeated
Brock, "nothing should be 'impossible' to a soldier. The word 'impossible'
must not be found in a soldier's vocabulary."
CHAPTER X.
THE MASSACRE AT MACKINAW.
It was while stationed in Montreal that our hero met Alexander Henry,
ex-fur-trader and adventurer and _coureur de bois_--then a merchant and
King's auctioneer--a notable personage and leader in many a wild exploit
in the far West, an old though virile man after Isaac's own heart.
From Henry he learned much of the Indian wars in the West, and the
strategic value of various points on the frontier, possession of which in the
event of war he foresaw would be worth a king's ransom. Not least were
details respecting Michilimackinac, the Mackinaw already referred to. Nearly
half a century before, Henry, a native of New Jersey, of English
parents--his ambition fired by tales of the fabulous fortunes to be made in
the fur trade--obtained from the commandant at Montreal a permit to
proceed west as a trader. He outfitted at Albany, and the following
summer set out for Mackinaw.
Meanwhile the Indian allies, under control of the great Pontiac, were
fighting immigration and civilization. Between Fort Pitt--Pittsburgh-- and the
Fox River, in Wisconsin, the home of the Sacs and Foxes, they had
captured nine out of thirteen military posts, and were secretly planning the
downfall of Fort Mackinaw. This was regarded as an impregnable post and
vulnerable only through strategy--in Indian parlance another name for
duplicity. Fort Mackinaw, as Brock well knew, was the most important
trading _entrepôt_ west of Montreal. It served a territory extending from
the Missouri in the west to the far Kissaskatchewan in the north.
On Henry's arrival his friendship was sought by an Indian chief, Wawatam.
Between these two men a remarkable attachment developed. They
became brothers by mutual adoption. At this time the fort was garrisoned
by ninety British regulars. One day, outside the walls on the surrounding
plateau, several hundred savages were encamped, ostensibly for
purposes of trade, some of them killing time by playing the Indian game of
ball--the _baggatiway_ of the red-man, _la jeu de la crosse_ of the
voyageur. Henry, acting upon a veiled warning by Wawatam, suggested to
the officer in command extra precaution.
"I told him," said he, while Brock drank in every word, "that Indian
treachery was proverbial." Now this recital was of the deepest interest to
our hero, for Mackinaw, then in the possession of the United States, held
the key to the Michigan frontier and control of the upper lakes. While the
huge log fire that roared in the chimney cast light and shadow on polished
wall and the oak beams of the big dining-hall, Brock puffed away at his
huge _partiga_, weighing every word that fell from the bearded lips of the
trader.
"Major Errington," continued Henry, "while thanking me, laughed at my
forebodings. Then Wawatam urged me, as his adopted brother, to depart
for Sault Ste. Marie. But I delayed and once more sought Errington, who
still ridiculed my fears. While I was yet expostulating with him we heard
the louder shouts of the Indians. They had rushed through the fort
gateway into the enclosure within the palisades in pursuit of a lost ball.
This was but a ruse to gain admittance, for in a moment the laughter and
shouts changed to wild yells and warwhoops. The guard was overpowered
in a flash, and in the attack that followed almost the entire garrison was
tomahawked and scalped."
"Ah!" said Brock, "so British lethargy and self-complaisance succumbed to
Indian duplicity."
Then his thoughts turned to Niagara. He saw the open portals of Fort
George, and Tuscarora youths playing the Indian game of ball in the
meadows of the Mohawk village.
"Those who escaped massacre at Mackinaw," said Henry, refilling his stone
pipe and resuming his story, "were preserved for a worse fate. Pontiac's
allies--and you, Colonel, know something of these matters from the tales
told you by the officers of the North-West Company--entered on a carnival
of blood. From a garret, where a Pawnee Indian woman had secreted me,
I saw the captured soldiers tomahawked and scalped, and some
butchered like so many cattle, just as required for the cannibal feast that
followed."
"Tortured?" interrogated Brock.
"Tortured!" repeated Henry. "Why, the diabolical devices that those men
resorted to to inflict acute physical agony were inconceivable-- unutterable,
Colonel." He paused.... "After all, no worse, perhaps, than the tortures
that have been inflicted by civilized fanatics in Europe."
There was silence for a moment. Both men were buried deep in thought,
the one living in the past, the other striving to forecast the future.
"Through the intercession of Wennway, another friendly Indian," continued
Henry, "my life was spared. Preparations were made for my secret
departure. As I shoved my canoe into the water, _en voyage_ for
Wagoshene, the prayers of Wawatam rang in my ears as, standing on the
yellow beach with outstretched arms, he invoked the _Gitche Manitou_,
the Great Spirit, to conduct me in safety to the wigwams of my people."
"Surely, Master Henry," commented Isaac Brock, "with all the latent
qualities for good that seem to underlie the outward ferocity of some
redmen, firmness and kindness are alone needed to convert them into
faithful friends."
"An Indian, or Indians collectively," said Henry, pausing before he
answered,--"I speak from personal experience only--are faithful so long as
you keep absolute good faith with them. In this particular they are no
different from white people; but never deceive them, even in trifles, and
never subject them to ridicule. Then, if you treat them with consideration,
you can reasonably depend upon their individual loyalty. They expect a lot
of attention. Yes! an Indian is naturally grateful, probably far more so than
the ordinary white man, and seldom forgets a kindness. Should you come
into closer contact with the redman, Colonel, as I have a presentiment you
will before long, never forget that an Indian, by right of his mode of life, is
deeply suspicious and painfully sensitive. He has a keen sense of humour,
however, and is quick to discern and laugh at the weak points of others,
which, until you understand his language, you will be slow to suspect. On
the other hand, he won't stand being laughed at himself or placed in a
foolish position. For that matter, who can? Occasionally you will meet a
savage with strangely high principles. Among the redskins there is a
proportion of good and bad, as there is in all races, but less crime, under
normal conditions, than there is among the whites. So, summing up his
vices and virtues, the North American Indian, allowing for heredity and
surroundings, differs little from ourselves."
"They are brave," interrupted Brock.
"Oh, yes," said Henry, "splendidly reckless of life. The courage of the
fatalist I should say. You see, they are so constantly on the war-path that
fighting is a compulsory pastime."
"Still," said Brock, "with what daring they fight for their homes."
"True, Colonel," retorted Henry, "but when it comes to fighting for home, a
hummingbird will defend its nest. Their peculiar traits are largely the result
of a nomadic life and tribal strife, hence, their duplicity. Superstition
influences them greatly, as it does all savage races. In one respect they
are at least superior to some of our own people--I refer to their treatment
of their children. Their lovingkindness is pathetic. Contact with civilization,
as you may discover, develops at first all their bad qualities, for they are
apt imitators, so when the pagan Indian meets a trader without a
conscience--and there are some, you know--why, he is not slow to adopt
the bad Christian's methods."
[Illustration: BROCK'S COCKED HAT]
CHAPTER XI.
LITTLE YORK, NIAGARA, AMHERSTBURG.
In common with most great men, Brock found distraction in trifles. For
weeks prior to leaving Quebec all kinds of gayety prevailed. A visit from
Governor Gore of Upper Canada, and the arrival of the fleet from Guernsey
and two frigates from Portsmouth, gave a fillip to society. Races,
water-parties and country picnics were the order of the day. Our hero's
contribution consisted of a banquet and grand ball. He had his own
troubles, however, that even the versatile Dobson could not overcome,
and he roundly scolded his brother Irving for not sending him a new cocked
hat.[2]
"That cocked hat," he said, "has not been received; a most distressing
circumstance, as from the enormity of my head I find the utmost difficulty in
getting a substitute."
His departure for York weighed upon him. In Quebec he had the most
"delightful garden imaginable, with abundance of melons and other good
things"--these, together with his new bastions and forts, he had to desert.
Being somewhat of a philosopher, he said that since fate decreed the best
portion of his life was to be wasted in inaction, and as President Jefferson,
though he wanted war, was afraid to declare it, he supposed he should
have to be pleased with the prospect of moving upwards.
Brock had been but a few weeks at Fort George--a "most lonesome place,"
as compared with Quebec, Montreal, Kingston, or even Little York, from
which latter place he was cut off by forty miles of lake, or more than a
hundred miles of dense forest and bridgeless streams--when he decided
upon a flying trip to Detroit, where, during the French _régime_, the
adventurous Cadillac had landed in 1701. He would inspect the western
limit of the frontier now under his care and obtain at first hand a
knowledge of the peninsula. "For," as he remarked to Glegg, his aide, "if I
can read the signs aright, the two nations are rushing headlong into a
military conflict."
Two routes were open to him, one overland, the other land and water. He
chose the latter. A vast quantity of freight now reached Queenston from
Kingston. Vessels of over fifty tons sailed up the river, bearing merchandise
for the North-West Company. Salt pork from Ireland and flour from London,
Britain being the real base of supply--the remote North-West looking to
Niagara for food and clothing--the return cargoes being furs and grain. To
portage these goods around Niagara Falls kept fifty or more farmers'
waggons busy every day during the summer. A team of horses or oxen
could haul twenty "pieces," of one hundred weight each, for a load. The
entire length of the portage from Lake Ontario to Lake Erie was practically
a street, full of all the bustle and activity that a scattered country
population of 12,000 conferred upon it. Two churches, twenty stores, a
printing house, six taverns and a scholastic academy supplied the varied
wants of Niagara's 500 citizens who overfilled its one hundred dwellings.
From Lake Ontario, Newark, as it had been called, presented an inviting
appearance. The brick-and-stone court-house and jail and brightly painted
Indian council-house and cottages rose in strong contrast against the
green forest. On the river bank was Navy Hall, a log retreat for seamen,
and on Mississaga (Black Snake) Point a stone lighthouse flashed its red
signal of hope to belated mariners. Nearer the lake shore, in isolated
dignity across a mile of common, stood Fort George, a dilapidated structure
with wooden palisades and bastions. Half-acre lots in the village were
given gratis by the Government to anyone who would build, and eight
acres outside for inclosures, besides a large "commonty" for the use of the
people. A quite pretentious wharf lined the river, and from this, on any
summer afternoon, a string of soldiers and idle citizens might be
seen--among whom was Dobson--casting hook and troll for bass, trout,
pickerel and herring, with which the river swarmed. On one occasion Brock
helped to haul up a seine net in which were counted 1,008 whitefish of an
average weight of two pounds, 6,000 being netted in one day.
Side-wheel ferries, driven by horse-power, plied between the river's mouth
and the Queenston landing. The paddle-wheels of these were open
double-spoke affairs, without any circular rim. A stage-coach also ran
between Queenston and Fort Erie, the first in Upper Canada. For one
dollar the passenger could travel twenty-five miles.
At Fort Erie, at the head of the Niagara River, Brock embarked in
mid-August in a government schooner. He wished to familiarize himself
with the upper water-ways. He made the long trip from Quebec to York,
and thence to Niagara, Amherstburg, Detroit, Sandwich and return
overland to Fort George, within two months--record time. Dobson
accompanied his master. Brock was silent as to his impressions, but
admitted he was convinced that the water route for a military expedition
was the only practical one, and that Mackinaw, held by the United States,
was the portal and key to the western frontier in case of invasion. He
crossed overland through the "bad woods" and open plains to the Point of
Pines, where batteaux and canoes awaited him. From thence he
proceeded along the north shore of Lake Erie until abreast of the Miami, a
confluent of the Ohio River, on the south shore, then turned northward up
the Detroit River, twenty-five miles farther, reaching Amherstburg--called
Malden by the Americans--250 miles from Fort Erie. Here, after consulting
with Colonel St. George, he inspected the battery at Sandwich, and with
little ceremony visited Detroit--the old military post of Pontchartrain--on the
opposite side of the river, later notorious as an emporium for "rum,
tomahawks and gunpowder." From Amherstburg, a small village with an
uncompleted fort and shipyard, he sent messengers to the remote post of
St. Joseph, an island, fifty-five miles from Mackinaw, below Sault Ste. Marie,
and started homewards overland.
In returning, he skirted the great tributary marshes, alive with water-fowl
of every description, whose gabble and flapping wings could be heard at a
long distance. He camped in the vast hardwood forests that covered the
western point of the peninsula that extends west from Lake Ontario to the
river connecting Lake Huron with Lake Erie. He shot big bustards and wild
turkeys in the bush, where wolves and deer were as thick as rabbits in a
warren, and tramped the uplands, teeming with quail and prairie chicken.
Continuing by Delaware and the Government road at Oxford on the
Thames, and by the "Long Woods" over the Burford Plains to Brant's Ford,
he reached the Grand River, and then by Ancaster and the head of the lake
to Burlington, when he followed the Lake Ontario southern shore road to
Niagara.
Many of the settlers whom he met were from the Eastern States. These
were the original Loyalists or their descendants, patriots to the core. Other
more recent arrivals--perhaps two-thirds of the whole--came from
Pennsylvania, New York and New Jersey, attracted by the fertility of the
soil and freedom from taxation, or to escape militia service. These latter he
quickly realized were not the class to rely upon in event of war, but he
gave no public sign of distrust. It was from the pick of the first-mentioned
stalwarts that Brock formed his loyal Canadian militia, his gallant
supporters in the war of 1812, who made a reputation at Detroit and
Queenston that will never die.
He was more than ever sensible of the resources of the country. This
glimpse of the west enamoured him. To his "beloved brothers"--our hero
always thus addressed them--he described it as a "delightful country, far
exceeding anything I have seen on this continent." The extent of the Great
Lakes amazed him, as did their fish. From these deep cisterns he had seen
the Indian fishermen take whitefish, the _ahtikameg_ (deer-of-the-water),
twenty pounds in weight; maskinonge-- _matchi-kenonje_, the great
pike--more than twice that size, and sturgeon that weighed two hundred
pounds and over, and in such quantities that he hesitated to tell his
experiences on his return.
Henry's stories of five hundred whitefish taken with a scoop net at the
rapids of Sault Ste. Marie in two hours were no longer questioned. The size
of the red-fleshed land-locked trout (the quail-of-the-water), of pickerel
and bass, astounded him. His travels had broadened his views. The
chatter of his Iroquois and Algonquin friends was now easier of
interpretation. The riddles of the wilderness were more easily read. He
now realized how possible it was, in this continent of unsurveyed
immensity, to journey for weeks, after leaving the white man's domain
hundreds of miles behind, and then reach only the rim of another kingdom
of even far greater fertility. He also realized that beyond these laughing
lands lay a rugged world of desolation, bounded in turn by the rasping
ice-floes of the Arctic.
If Brock's mind had expanded, so had his body. He was, as he expressed
it, as "hard as nails." The close of 1811 found "Master Isaac" a grand
specimen of manhood. Inclined to be a little portly, he was still athletic. His
face, though a trifle stern, had grown more attractive, because of the
benevolent look now stamped upon it. He was still fair and florid, with a
broad forehead, and eyes though somewhat small, yet full and of a grayish
blue, a charming smile and splendid white teeth. Always the same kindly
gentleman and always a soldier. His life at Fort George had been one of
great loneliness. He read much and rapidly, and would memorize passages
from the books that had left the deepest impression. History, civil and
military, especially ancient authors, was his choice, and maps his
weakness. Over these, with his devoted aides, he would pore late into the
night, until he knew the country almost as well as his friend the
Surveyor-General. For variety he feasted upon the robust beauties of
Pope's "Homer," ever regretting he never had a master "to guide and
encourage him in his tastes."
With Lieutenant-Governor Gore, formerly a soldier in Guernsey, our hero
was on intimate terms. When the grind of duty let him, he would travel
"the worst road in the country--fit only for an Indian mail-carrier--in order
to mix in the society of York." He periodically returned these hospitalities by
a grand ball at Niagara--always the event of the season. Brock, while fond
of women's society, preferred brain to beauty. Had his old Guernsey
friends been present on these occasions they would not have recognized
in the soldier, resplendent in a general's uniform, now dancing a mazurka,
the handsome stripling who only a few years since had waltzed his way
into the hearts of all the women of St. Peter's Port.
The unrest of the Indians at Amherstburg troubled him. He had seen over
eight hundred in camp there, receiving rations for a month while waiting
presents of blankets, powder and shot from King George. They asked
British support if they took the warpath against the Americans--the
Long-knives--_Gitchi-mokohmahn_, their sworn enemies. Tecumseh, a
Shawanese chief, had demanded from the United States the restoration of
violated rights. This demand had not been complied with. The position was
critical. Great tact was required to retain the friendship of the Indians,
while not complying with their request.
In Lower Canada there was still discord among the French Canadians. The
Governor, Sir James Craig, in a dying condition, relinquished office. In
answer to Brock's application for leave, still hoping for a staff appointment
in Portugal, the Governor-General implored him to remain.
"I must," he told him, "leave the country in the best state of security I can;
your presence is needed here. I am sending you as a mark of my sincere
regard my favourite horse, Alfred." This was a high-bred animal, and our
hero's charger in the war that followed.
It was not, however, until war was regarded as unavoidable, and not until
after he was promoted to be a major-general and appointed President and
Administrator of Upper Canada, as successor to Governor Gore, that Isaac
Brock became reconciled to life in Canada, and with set purpose assumed
the duties of his high calling.
Our hero had passed his _third_ milestone.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] Miss Carnochan, as the Curator of the Niagara Historical Society the
custodian of many relics of the war of 1812, has in her keeping this
identical cocked hat. It arrived "shortly after Brock's death, and was given
by his nephew to Mr. George Ball, near whose residence the 49th was
stationed. The hat measures twenty-four inches inside, and was used at
the funeral obsequies of 1824 and 1853, when many old soldiers
requested, and were permitted, to try it on." The usage that the cocked
hat then received has not improved its appearance.
CHAPTER XII.
MAJOR-GENERAL BROCK, GOVERNOR OF UPPER CANADA.
The appointment of Brock--with his exceptional military attainments--to the
chief command in Upper Canada, at the point of greatest danger, was a
rare piece of good fortune for the colony. Of the American military leaders,
Generals Howe, Dearborn and Wadsworth were all examples of a common
standard; even Sir George Prevost, the new Governor-General of Canada
and Commander-in-Chief, was tuned in a minor key.
Isaac Brock was the man of the hour. His star was in the ascendant.
Queen Victoria's father, the Duke of Kent, was anxious to meet the soldier
whose despatches had stirred the War Office. The Duke of York was ready
to give him a brigade under Wellington, while the Governor of Jamaica, the
Duke of Manchester, then touring Canada, begged Brock, whom he looked
upon as a "universal provider," to equip him with canoes and guides for a
western pilgrimage. If Brock's promotion brought him distinction it also
brought him work--Executive Councils, court-martials, reorganization of
militia, reconstruction of the ruined forts on the Niagara frontier, the
building of gunboats, the making of roads. Never idle. To-day he was
inspecting a camp of the 49th at Three Rivers, near Montreal; next week at
Fort Erie. Ever busy, ever buoyant. Whether perusing documents, scouring
the muddy roads at Queenston, surveying the boundaries of the dreaded
Black Swamp, or visiting the points between Fort George and Vrooman's
battery on his slashing gray charger, he had a smile and cheery word for
everyone. As for Dobson, his profound awe at his master's progress was
only equalled by his devotion, that increased with the illness that
threatened his life; while the faithful sergeant-major, now Captain
FitzGibbon, in command of a company of the 49th, was reflecting great
credit on his patron. But no matter what the tax on his time, Isaac never
neglected the "beloved brothers."
In New York there had been financial failures. Brock predicted a dreadful
crash, and had so written to his brother Irving, who with William had a
bank in London. He hoped they "had withheld their confidence in public
stocks." Providence ruled otherwise. While Isaac in the solitude of his
quarters was writing this warning, the banking house in London, whose
vessels in the Baltic Sea had been seized by Bonaparte's privateers, closed
its doors. The news reached him on his birthday. He learned that a private
advance made to him by William for the purchase of his commissions had
been entered in the bank's books by mistake. He was a debtor to the
extent of £3,000.
Brock rose to the occasion. He proved himself not only a soldier but, best
of all, a just man with the highest sense of personal honour. His distress
was all for his brothers. He would sell his commission, turn over his income
as governor and surrender everything, if by doing so he could save the
fortunes of his family. Anything that not only the law but the right might
demand. This failure impaired the former good fellowship between William
and Irving Brock. Isaac wrote Irving, beseeching him to repair the breach.
"Hang the world," said he; "it is not worth a thought. Be generous, and
find silent comfort in being so. Oh, my dear brother, forget the past and let
us all unite in soothing the grief of one of the best hearts that heaven ever
formed, whose wish was to place us all in affluence. Could tears restore
him he would be happy."
But Isaac was not permitted to know that reconciliation followed his
prayers. While William and Irving were shaking hands, but before they had
even heard of the capture of Detroit, Isaac, unknown to them, was at that
moment lying cold in death within the cavalier bastion at Fort George.
Little York was now Brock's headquarters. He built dockyards to shelter His
Majesty's navy, which consisted of two small vessels! He planned new
Parliament Buildings and an arsenal, prepared township maps showing
roads and trails, fords and bridges, all of which latter were in a shocking
condition. At York the timber and brushwood was so dense that travel
between the garrison and town was actually by water. His mind made up
that war with the United States was inevitable, he was confronted with
crucial questions demanding instant solution. Chief of these was the
defence of the frontier, 1,300 miles in length, which entailed repairs of the
boundary forts, the raising of a reliable militia, the increase of the regular
troops, the building of more gunboats, and the solving of the Indian
problem.
[Illustration: BUTLER'S BARRACKS (OFFICERS' QUARTERS), NIAGARA
COMMON]
CHAPTER XIII.
THE WAR CLOUD.
A President of the United States had breezily declared that the conquest of
Canada would be "a mere matter of marching." The final expulsion of
England from the American continent he regarded as a matter of course.
Cabinet ministers at Washington and rabid politicians looked upon the
forcible annexation of Canada as a foregone conclusion.
One Massachusetts general officer, a professional fire-eater, said he
"would capture Canada by contract, raise a company of soldiers and take it
in six weeks." Henry Clay, another statesman, "verily believed that the
militia of Kentucky alone were competent to place Upper Canada at the
feet of the Americans." Calhoun, also a "war-hawk," had said that "in four
weeks from the time of the declaration of war the whole of Upper and part
of Lower Canada would be in possession of the United States." All of this
was only the spread-eagle bombast of amateur filibusters, as events
proved, but good cause for Brock, who had been appointed janitor of
Canada and been given the keys of the country, to ponder deeply.
Canada's entire population was nearly 320,000--about the same as that of
Toronto to-day--that of the United States was 8,000,000! To defend her
broken frontier Canada had only 1,450 British soldiers and a militia--at that
moment--chiefly on paper. If the Indians in the West were to be impressed
with British supremacy--for they were making a stand against 2,000
American soldiers on the banks of the Wabash, in Ohio, where eighteen
years before they had been beaten by General Wayne at Miami--then
Amherstburg must be greatly strengthened and the Americans deterred
from attack. How was Brock to obtain troops, and how were they to be
equipped? The stores at Fort York were empty, provisions costly, and no
specie to be had. All the frontier posts needed heavier batteries. On Lake
Erie the fleet consisted of the _Queen Charlotte_ and the small schooner
_Hunter_. As to the militia, he had been advised that it would not be
prudent to arm more than 4,000 of the 11,000 in all Canada prepared to
bear arms.
To Brock's citation of thirty pressing wants Sir George Prevost wrote him,
"You must not be led into any measure bearing the character of _offence_,
even should war be declared." Prevost had a fluid backbone, while Brock's
was of finely tempered steel.
While affairs were in this precarious state His Excellency the
Lieutenant-Governor, Major-General Brock, opened the Legislature at York.
With what pride the news was received by the good people at St. Peter's
Port can be imagined. To think that this great man, gorgeous in a purple
Windsor uniform and slender court sword, with gleaming silk hose and hair
aglitter with silver powder, was none other than "Master Isaac," whom the
humblest Guernsey fisherman claimed as comrade, seemed past belief! To
think that this important gentleman, with frilled waistcoat and cuffs of
delicate lace--actually the King's Deputy--before whom, as "Your
Excellency," Indian and paleface, gentle and simple, bowed low, was the
small boy who used to play "uprooting the gorse" with the Guernsey
fisher-lads--was beyond comprehension. Probably the one least affected
by these honours was our hero himself. While it gratified his honest
of Isaac Brock
Hero, Defender and Saviour of Upper
Canada, 1812
By Walter R. Nursey
Published by William Briggs (1908, Toronto)
"By his unrivalled skill, by great
And veteran service to the state,
By worth adored,
He stood, in high dignity,
The proudest knight of chivalry, Knight of the Sword."
-- Coplas de Manrique.
A WORD TO THE READER
That Isaac Brock is entitled to rank as the foremost defender of the flag
Western Canada has ever seen, is a statement which no one familiar with
history can deny. Brock fought and won out when the odds were all
against him.
At a time when almost every British soldier was busy fighting Napoleon in
Europe, upon General Brock fell the responsibility of upholding Britain's
honour in America. He was "the man behind the gun"--the undismayed
man--when the integrity of British America was threatened by a
determined enemy.
His success can be measured by the fact that it is only since the war of
1812-14 that the British flag has been properly respected in the western
hemisphere. It is also a fact that after the capture of Detroit the Union Jack
became more firmly rooted in the affections of the Canadian people than
ever.
It must not be forgotten that the capture of this stronghold was almost as
far-reaching in its ultimate effect as the victory of Wolfe on the Plains of
Abraham, and was fraught with little, if any, less import to Canada. What
with the timidity of Prevost, and the tactical blunders of both himself and
Sheaffe, the immediate influence upon the enemy of the victories at Detroit
and Queenston was almost nullified. Had Brock survived Queenston, or
even had his fixed, militant policy been allowed to prevail from the first, it is
safe to say there would have been no armistice, no placating of a clever,
intriguing foe, and no two years' prolongation of the war. Had the
capitulation of Detroit, the crushing defeat at Queenston, and the
wholesale desertion of Wadsworth's cowardly legions at Lewiston, been
followed up by the British with relentless assault "all along the
line"--before the enemy had time to recover his grip--then our hero's
feasible plan, which he had pleaded with Prevost to permit, namely, to
sweep the Niagara frontier and destroy Sackett's Harbor--the key to
American naval supremacy of the lakes--could, there is no good reason to
doubt, have been carried out. The purpose of this little book is not,
however, to deal in surmises.
The story of Sir Isaac Brock's life should convey to the youth of Canada a
significance similar to that which the bugle-call of the trumpeter, sounding
the advance, conveys to the soldier in the ranks. Reiteration of Brock's
deeds should help to develop a better appreciation of his work, a truer
conception of his heroism, a wiser understanding of his sacrifice.
Many a famous man owes a debt of inspiration to some other great life
that went before him. Not until every boy in Canada is thoroughly familiar
with "Master Isaac's" achievements will he be qualified to exclaim with the
Indian warrior, Tecumseh,
NOTE.--Of the hundred and more books and documents consulted in a
search for facts I would register my special obligations to Tupper's "Life of
Brock"; Auchinleck's "History of the War of 1812-14"; Cruikshank's
"Documentary History," and Richardson's "War of 1812" (edited by
Casselman).
[Illustration: "VIEW OF ST. PETER'S PORT, GUERNSEY, 18 x 6"]
CHAPTER I.
OUR HERO'S HOME--GUERNSEY.
Off the coast of Brittany, where the Bay of Biscay fights the white horses of
the North Sea, the Island of Guernsey rides at anchor. Its black and yellow,
red and purple coast-line, summer and winter, is awash with surf, burying
the protecting reefs in a smother of foam. Between these drowned ridges
of despair, which warn the toilers of the sea of an intention to engulf them,
tongues of ocean pierce the grim chasms of the cliffs.
Between this and the sister island of Alderney the teeth of the Casquets
cradle the skeleton of many a stout ship, while above the level of the sea
the amethyst peaks of Sark rise like phantom bergs. In the sunlight the
rainbow-coloured slopes of Le Gouffre jut upwards a jumble of glory.
Exposed to the full fury of an Atlantic gale, these islands are well-nigh
obliterated in drench. From where the red gables cluster on the heights of
Fort George, which overhang the harbour, to the thickets of Jerbourg,
valley and plain, at the time we write of, were a gorgeous carpet of
anemones, daffodils, primroses and poppies.
These are tumultuous latitudes. Sudden hurricanes, with the concentrated
force of the German Ocean behind them, soon scourge the sea into a
whirlpool and extinguish every landmark in a pall of gray. For centuries
tumult and action have been other names for the Channel Islands. It is no
wonder that the inhabitants partake of the nature of their surroundings.
Contact with the elements produces a love for combat. As this little book is
largely a record of strife, and of one of Guernsey's greatest fighting sons, it
may be well to recall the efforts that preceded the birth of our hero and
influenced his career, and through which Guernsey retained its liberties.
For centuries Guernsey had been whipped into strife. From the raid upon
her independence by David Bruce, the exiled King of Scotland, early in
1300, on through the centuries up to the seventeenth, piping times of
peace were few and far between. The resources of the island led to
frequent invasions from France, but while fighting and resistance did not
impair the loyalty of the islanders, it nourished a love of freedom, and of
hostility to any enemy who had the effrontery to assail it. As a rule the
sojourn of these invaders was brief. When sore pressed in a pitched battle
on the plateau above St. Peter's Port, the inhabitants would retreat behind
the buttresses of Castle Cornet, when, as in the invasion by Charles V. of
France, the fortress proving impregnable, the besiegers would collect their
belongings and sail away.
In the fourteenth century Henry VI. of England, in consideration of a red
rose as annual rental, conveyed the entire group to the Duke of Warwick.
But strange privileges were from time to time extended to these audacious
people. Queen Elizabeth proclaimed the islands a world's sanctuary, and
threw open the ports as free harbours of refuge in time of war. She
authorized protection to "a distance on the ocean as far as the eye of man
could reach." This act of grace was cancelled by George the Third, who
regarded it as a premium on piracy. In Cromwell's time Admiral Blake had
been instructed to raise the siege of Castle Cornet. He brought its
commander to his senses, but only after nine years of assault, and not
before 30,000 cannon-balls had been hurled into the town.
Late in the fourteenth century, when the English were driven out of
France, not a few of those deported, who had the fighting propensity well
developed, made haste for the Channel Islands, where rare chances
offered to handle an arquebus for the King. Among those who sought
refuge in Guernsey there landed, not far from the Lion's Rock at Cobo, an
English knight, Sir Hugh Brock, lately the keeper of the Castle of Derval in
Brittany, a man "stout of figure and valiant of heart." This harbour of
refuge was St. Peter's Port.
"Within a long recess there lies a bay,
An island shades it from the rolling sea,
And forms a port."
The islet that broke the Atlantic rollers was Castle Cornet. Sir Hugh Brock,
or Badger in the ancient Saxon time--an apt name for a tenacious
fighter--shook hands with fate. He espied the rocky cape of St. Jerbourg,
and ofttimes from its summit he would shape bold plans for the future, the
maturing of which meant much to those of his race destined to follow.
The commercial growth of the Channel Islands has been divided into five
periods, those of fishing, knitting (the age of the garments known as
"jerseys" and "guernseys"), privateering, smuggling, and agriculture and
commerce. To the third period belong these records. The prosperity of the
islands was greatest from the middle of the seventeenth century up to the
overthrow of Napoleon at Waterloo and the close of Canada's successful
fight against invasion in 1815. During this period the building of ships for
the North Atlantic and Newfoundland trade opened new highways for
commerce, but the greatest factor in this development was the "reputable
business" of privateering, which must not be confounded either with
buccaneering or yard-arm piracy. It was only permitted under regular
letters of marque, was ranked as an honorable occupation, and those bold
spirits, the wild "beggars of the sea"--who preferred the cutlass and a
roving commission in high latitudes to ploughing up the cowslips in the
Guernsey valleys, or knitting striped shirts at home--were recognized as
good fighting men and acceptable enemies.
Trade in the islands, consequent upon the smuggling that followed and the
building of many ships, produced much wealth, creating a class of newly
rich and with it some "social disruption."
Notable in the "exclusive set," not only on account of his athletic figure and
handsome face, but for his winning manners and ability to dance, though
but a boy, was Isaac Brock. Isaac--a distant descendant of bold Sir
Hugh--was the eighth son of John Brock, formerly a midshipman in the
Royal Navy, a man of much talent and, like his son, of great activity. Brock,
the father, did not enjoy the fruit of his industry long, for in 1777, in his
49th year, he died in Brittany, leaving a family of fourteen children. Of ten
sons, Isaac, destined to become "the hero and defender of Upper
Canada," was then a flaxen-haired boy of eight.
Anno Domini 1769 will remain a memorable one in the history of the
empire. Napoleon, the conqueror of Europe, and Wellington, the conqueror
of Napoleon, were both sons of 1769. This same year Elizabeth de Lisle,
wife of John Brock, of St. Peter's Port, bore him his eighth son, the Isaac
referred to, also ordained to become "a man of destiny." Isaac's future
domain was that greater, though then but little known, dominion beyond
the seas, Canada--a territory of imperial extent, whose resources at that
time came within the range of few men's understanding. Isaac Brock, as
has been shown, came of good fighting stock, was of clean repute and
connected with most of the families of high degree on the Island. The de
Beauvoirs, Saumarez, de Lisles, Le Marchants, Careys, Tuppers and many
others distinguished in arms or diplomacy, were his kith and kin. His mind
saturated with the stories of the deeds of his ancestors, and possessed of
a spirit of adventure developed by constant contact with soldiers and
sailors, it was but natural that he became cast in a fighting mould and that
"to be a soldier" was the height of his ambition.
Perhaps Isaac Brock's chief charm, which he retained in a marked degree in
after life--apart from his wonderful thews and sinews, his stature and
athletic skill--was his extreme modesty and gentleness. The fine old maxim
of the child being "father to the man" in his case held good.
CHAPTER II.
SCHOOL AND PASTIMES.
Guernsey abounded in the natural attractions that are dear to the youth of
robust body and adventurous nature. Isaac, though he excelled in field
sports and was the admiration of his school-fellows, was sufficiently strong
within himself to find profit in his own society. In the thickets that
overlooked Houmet Bay he found solace apart from his companions. There
he would recall the stories told him of the prowess of his ancestor, William
de Beauvoir, that man of great courage, a Jurat of the royal court. Even
here he did not always escape intruders. Outside the harbour of St. Peter's
Port, separated by an arm of the sea, rose the Ortach Rock, between the
Casquets and "Aurigny's Isle," a haunted spot, once the abode of a
sorcerer named Jochmus. To secure quiet he would frequently visit this
isolated place, in spite of the resident devil, the devil-fish, or the devil-strip
of treacherous water which ran between.
He was not ten when, to the amazement of his friends in imitation of
Leander but without the same inducements, he swam the half mile to the
reefs of Castle Cornet and back again, through a boiling sea and rip-tides
that ran like mill-races. This performance he repeated again and again. For
milder amusement he would tramp to the water-lane that stole through
the Moulin Huet, a bower of red roses and perfume, or walk by moonlight
to the mystic cromlechs, where the early pagans and the warlocks and
witches of later days flitted round the ruined altars.
Though Isaac was self-contained and resolute he had a restless spirit.
Fearless, without a touch of the braggart, his courage was of the valiant
order, the quality that accompanies a lofty soul in a strong body. For his
constant courtesy and habit of making sacrifices for his friends, he was in
danger of being canonized by his school-fellows.
About this time, shortly after his father's death, it was suggested he
should leave the Queen Elizabeth School on the Island and study at
Southampton. Here he tried his best, boy though he was, to live up to the
standard of what he had been told were his obligations as a gentleman,
acquiring, too, a little book-learning and much every-day knowledge.
Isaac's holidays, always spent in his beloved Guernsey, increased the
thirst for adventure. The spirit of conquest, the controlling influence of his
after life, grew upon him. Something accomplished, something done, was
the daily rule. To scale an impossible cliff with the wings of circling sea-fowl
beating in his face, to land a big conger eel without receiving a shock, to
rescue a partridge from a falcon, to shoot a rabbit at fifty paces, to break a
wild pony, or even to scan a complicated line in his syntax--these were
achievements, small perhaps, but typical of his desire. His young soul was
stirred; the blood coursed in his veins as the sap courses in the trees of
the forest in spring; his mind, susceptible to the influences of nature, was
strengthened and purified by these pursuits.
In the shelter of silent trossach, on wind-swept height, or on wildest,
ever-restless sea, he would, as the mood seized him, take his solitary
outings. These jaunts, he told his mother, gave him time to reflect and
resolve. It was not strange that he selected a profession that presented
the opportunities he craved.
England with folded arms was at peace. The Treaty of Versailles had
terminated the disastrous war with America. The independence of the
"Thirteen States" had been recognized. The world was drawing a long
breath, filling its fighting lungs, awaiting the death struggle with Napoleon
for the supremacy of Europe. Yet the spirit of war lingered in the air. It
even drifted on the breeze across the Channel to Guernsey, and filtered
through the trees that crowned the Lion's Rock at Cobo. It invaded the
valleys of the Petit Bot and stirred the bulrushes in the marshes of Havelet.
The pulse of our hero throbbed with the subtle infection. Not with the
brute lust for other men's blood, but with the instinct of the true patriot to
shed, if need be, his own blood to maintain the right. He would follow the
example of his ancestors and fight and die, if duty called him, in defence of
king and country.
The sweet arrogance of youth uplifted him. Earth, air and water conspired
to encourage him. To satisfy this unspoken craving for action he would,
from his outlook on the Jerbourg crags--where bold Sir Hugh had sat for
just such purpose years before--watch the Weymouth luggers making bad
weather of it beyond the Casquets; or challenge in his own boat the
rip-tides between Sark and Brechou, and the combers that romped
between St. Sampson and the Isle of Herm.
There was no limit to this boy's hardihood and daring. The more furious the
gale the more congenial the task. Returning from these frequent baptisms
of salt water, his Saxon fairness and Norman freshness aglow with spray,
he would loiter on the beach to talk to the kelp gatherers raking amid the
breakers, and to watch the mackerel boats, reefed down, flying to the
harbour for shelter. The crayfish in the pools would tempt him, he would try
his hand at sand-eeling, or watch the surf men feed a devil-fish to the
crabs. Then up the gray benches of the furrowed cliffs, starred with silver
lichens and stone-crop, to where ploughmen were leaving glistening
furrows in the big parsnip fields. Then on through the tangle of
sweet-briar, honeysuckle and wild roses, where birds nested in the
perfumed foliage, until, the summit reached, surrounded by purple heather
and golden gorse, he would look on the sea below, with Sark, like a
"basking whale, burning in the sunset." Then he would hurry to tell his
mother of the day's exploits, retiring to dream of strange lands and
turbulent scenes, in which the roll of drums and roar of cannon seemed
never absent.
With his youthful mind possessed with the exploits of the King's soldiers in
Europe and America, and influenced by his brother John's example--then
captain in the 8th Regiment of the line--Isaac pleaded successfully to enter
the army. To better prepare for this all-important step, and to become
proficient in French, a necessary accomplishment, it was arranged, though
he was only fifteen, to place him with a Protestant clergyman in Rotterdam
for one year, to complete his education.
His vacations now were few; his visits to the Island flying ones. But the old
life still fascinated him. His physique developed as the weeks flew by, and
he became more and more a striking personality. This was doubly true, for
while he remained the champion swimmer, he was also the best boxer of
his class, besides excelling in every other manly sport. In tugs-of-war and
"uprooting the gorse" he had no equals, but a sense of his educational
deficiencies kept him at his books.
He had only passed his sixteenth birthday when, one wild March morning
in 1785, he was handed an important-looking document. It was a
parchment with the King's seal attached, his commission of ensign in the
8th Regiment. Isaac at once joined the regimental depot in England. It was
evident that his lack of learning would prove a barrier to promotion. He
found that much of the leisure hitherto devoted to athletic sports must be
given to study. Behind "sported oak," while dust accumulated on
boxing-glove and foil--neither the banter of his brother officers nor his love
for athletics inducing him to break the resolution--he bent to his work with
a fixity of purpose that augured well for his future.
In every man's life there are milestones. Isaac Brock's life may fairly be
divided into five periods. When he crossed the threshold of his Guernsey
home and donned the uniform of the King he passed his _first_ milestone.
CHAPTER III.
FROM ENSIGN TO COLONEL.
In every young man's career comes a time of probation. During this critical
period that youth is wise who enters into a truce with his feelings. This is
the period when influences for good or bad assert themselves--the parting
of the ways. The sign-posts are painted in capitals.
When Brock buttoned his scarlet tunic and strapped his sword on his hip,
as fine a specimen of a clean-bodied, clean-minded youth as ever trod the
turnpike of life, he knew that he was at the cross-roads. The trail before
him was well blazed, but straight or crooked, rough or smooth, valley or
height, it mattered little so long as he kept nourished the bright light of
purpose that burned steadily within him.
Five years of uneventful service, chiefly in England, passed by, and our
hero was celebrating his coming of age. His only inheritance was health,
hope and courage. While neither monk nor hermit, he had so far been as
steadfast as the Pole Star in respect to his resolutions. He had allowed
nothing to induce him to break the rules engraved on brass that he had
himself imposed. His mind had broadened, his spirits ran high, his
conscience told him that he was graduating in the world's university with
honour. His love for athletics still continued. He had the thews of a
gladiator, and in his Guernsey stockings stood six feet two inches. Add to
this an honest countenance, with much gentleness of manner and great
determination, and you have a faithful picture of Isaac Brock.
Upon obtaining his lieutenancy he returned to Guernsey, raised an
independent company, and exchanged into the 49th, the Royal Berkshires,
then stationed in Barbadoes. He now found himself looking at life under
new conditions. While the beauties of Barbadoes enchanted him, his duties
as a soldier were disappointing. They were limited to drill, dress parade,
guard mounting, the erection of new fortifications, and patrolling the coast
for vessels carrying prohibited cargoes.
Under the terms of a treaty made at Paris in 1773, United States produce
for British West Indian ports could only be carried by British subjects in
British ships. Britain's men-of-war were also authorized to seize any vessel
laden with produce for or from any French colony. Brock was a soldier, not
a policeman, and coast-guard duties palled upon him. His great diversion
was in calculating the probabilities of invasion by the French. In
expectation of this, the refortifying of the island was in progress. The
memory of Admiral d'Estaing's visit with his fleet from Toulon, and the
capture of St. Vincent, sent a chill through the island. The great victory by
the British Admiral Rodney, when he whipped a superior French fleet to a
standstill, was yet to come. Bastions and earthworks grew during the night
like mushrooms. While Brock chafed under restraint, he knew how to
improve the opportunity.
Fishing, shooting sea-fowl, and exploring the interior on horseback, were
Brock's chief pastimes. He became a fearless horseman. Mount Hillaby rose
1,200 feet above the Caribbean Sea. The very crest of its almost
impossible pinnacle Brock is said to have ascended on horseback. Between
Bridgetown, in Barbadoes, and Kingston, Jamaica, he divided his time, and
though monotonous, his life in the Windward Islands was not wholly void
of adventure.
Shortly after joining his regiment at Bridgetown our hero had his first affair
of honour, an opportunity to display his courage under most trying
conditions. A certain captain in the 49th was a confirmed duellist, with a
reputation of being a dead shot at short range. Resting upon his evil
record, this braggart had succeeded in terrorizing the garrison, and it was
soon Brock's turn to be selected for insult. But Isaac could not be bullied or
intimidated. He promptly challenged and was as promptly accepted.
The fateful morning arrived. In a lonely spot, palm-sheltered, and within
sight of the sea breaking upon the coral reefs, principals and seconds met.
There was no question in Brock's mind as to his duty--the duello at that
time was the recognized court of appeal. If its purpose as originally
designed had at times been infamously abused, it was still the one and
only arbiter through which insults had to be purged and from which, for the
"officer and gentleman," there was no escape.
Now Isaac, who was several inches taller and much bulkier than the
scoundrel who had insulted him, declined to become a shining mark at the
regulation twelve paces. He demanded from his fire-eating antagonist that
the duel proceed on equal terms. Whipping out his kerchief, cool as a
cucumber, his blue eyes steady and resolute, he insisted that _they both
fire across it_. The fairness of the proposal staggered the bully. The
chances were not sufficiently one-sided. If this plan was acted upon he
might himself be killed. He refused to comply. The code of honour and
garrison approval sustained Brock in his contention, and the refusal of the
professional killer to fight under even chances was registered in the
mess-room as the act of a coward, and he left the regiment by compulsion.
In Jamaica the continued strain of inactivity under which our hero fretted
told upon him, and he was struck down with fever, his cousin, Henry Brock,
lieutenant in the 13th Foot, dying in Kingston of the same pestilence. At
this time Isaac had as servant a soldier named Dobson, one of those
faithful souls who, true as steel, once installed in their master's affection,
remain loyal to the end. To the untiring attentions of this man Brock owed
his life. Deep and mutual respect followed, and the two became
inseparable. Where Brock went, there was Dobson, sharing his fortune
and all the hard knocks of his military campaigns, a fellowship ending only
with Dobson's death, shortly before his "beloved master" gave up his life
on Queenston Heights.
Tropical malaria is hard to shake off. Release from duty was imperative,
and as England was now calling for recruits, the War Office summoned
Brock, an alluring sample of a soldier, to whom was assigned the task of
licking the fighting country bumpkin--the raw material--into shape. This he
did, first in England, then in Guernsey and Jersey. A vision of our hero,
glorious in his uniform, was in itself sufficient to ensnare the senses of any
country yokel. It was a militant age.
When quartered in Guernsey, and from the same heights of Jerbourg
where but a few years before he was wont to sweep the ocean for
belated fishing smacks, Brock saw his kinsman, Sir James Saumarez, and
the white canvas of a small squadron, heave in sight from Plymouth Roads.
The British sailor had been ordered to ascertain the strength of the French
fleet. Saumarez' ships were far slower than those of the enemy, so,
feigning the greatest desire to fight, he lured his opponent by a clever
ruse. First he closed with him, and then, when his own capture seemed
inevitable, hauled his wind, slipped through a maze of reefs by an intricate
passage--long familiar to our hero--and found safety off La Vazon, where
the Frenchmen dare not follow.
In June, 1795, Brock purchased his majority, but retained his command of
the recruits. From toes to finger-tips Isaac was a soldier, bent on
mastering every detail of the profession of his choice. A year after the
return of the 49th to England, on the completion of his 28th year, he
became by purchase senior lieutenant-colonel of his regiment. High honour
and rapid promotion, considering that for five out of seven years' service
he had remained an ensign. He had learned to recognize opportunity, the
earthly captain of a man's fate.
"For every day I stand outside your door,
And bid you wake and rise to fight and win."
But Brock's position was no sinecure. The regiment was in a badly
demoralized condition. The laxity of the late commanding officer had
created a deplorable state of things. To restore the lost _morale_ of the
corps was his first duty. The thoroughness of his reforms can be best
understood by quoting the words of the Duke of York, who declared that
"out of one of the worst regiments in the service Colonel Brock had made
the 49th one of the best."
From the Commander-in-Chief of a nation's army to a colonel--not yet
thirty--of a marching regiment, this was an exceptional tribute.
Isaac's persistent endeavours were rapidly bringing their own reward.
[Illustration: NAVY HALL, REMNANT OF THE OLD "RED BARRACKS," NIAGARA,
1797]
CHAPTER IV.
EGMONT-OP-ZEE AND COPENHAGEN.
Meanwhile the war cloud in Europe was growing apace. Holland had been
forced into an alliance with France. War, no longer a spectre, but a grim
monster, stalked the Continent. Everywhere the hostile arts of Bonaparte
were rousing the nations. The breezes that had stirred the marshes of
Havelet and awakened in Brock a sense of impending danger, now a
furious gale, swept the empires. The roll of drums and roar of cannon that
Isaac had listened to in his boyhood dreams were now challenging in
deadly earnest. The great _reveille_ that was awakening the world was
followed by the British buglers calling to arms the soldiers of the King.
Notwithstanding the aversion of the English prime minister, Pitt, to
commence hostilities, war was unavoidable. One of the twelve battalions
of infantry selected for the front was the 49th. When the orders were read
for the regiment to join the expedition to Holland, wild excitement
prevailed in barracks. Active service had come at last. The parting of Brock
with his family was softened by maternal pride in his appearance.
The tunic of the 49th was scarlet, with short swallow-tails. The rolling
lapels were faced with green, the coat being laced with white, with a high
collar. The shako, which was originally surmounted by white feathers with
black tips, a distinction for services in the American war of 1776, at
Bunker's Hill and Brandywine, was, at Brock's special request, replaced by
a black plume. The officers wore their hair turned up behind and fastened
with a black "flash." The spectacle of Master Isaac thus arrayed, in all the
glory of epaulets and sabretache and the gold braid of a full colonel,
reconciled the inhabitants of St. Peter's Port to his departure.
By the end of August the first division of the British army, of which the 49th
was a unit, was aboard the transports in the Zuyder Zee, off the coast of
Holland, and early one morning, under the command of Sir Ralph
Abercrombie, with blare of trumpets and standards flying, they effected a
landing under the guns of the ships of the line, of which, with frigates and
sloops, there were well-nigh sixty. Brock had often listened to the roar of
shot and shell in target practice and sham fight, but of a cannonade of
artillery, where every shrieking cannon-ball was probably a winged
messenger of death, this was his first experience. He now learned that in
the music of the empty shell of experiment and the wicked screech of the
missiles of war there was an unpleasant difference. He did not wince, but
sternly drew himself together, thought of home, begged God's mercy, and
awaited the command to advance with an impatience that was physical
pain.
By four in the afternoon the Hilder Peninsula and its batteries had been
taken, but with a loss to the British of a thousand men. Brock could
scarcely believe that the enemy had retreated. This, however, was merely
a taste of war. The second division having arrived, the whole force of
nearly 20,000 men, under the Duke of York, started to make history. In the
last days of a stormy September 16,000 Russian allies reached the scene.
The fourth brigade, which included the 49th, was under the command of
General Moore--Sir John Moore, of Corunna fame. For several weeks the
waiting troops were encamped in the sand-hills without canvas and
exposed to biting storms. The capture of the city of Horn without
resistance hardly prepared our hero and his men for the stout opposition
at the battle of Egmont-op-Zee that followed.
Brock's brother, Savery, a paymaster to the brigade, though by virtue of
his calling exempt from field service, insisted on joining the fighting line,
acting as aide to Sir Ralph Abercrombie.
Every record, every line written or in print concerning Brock, from first to
last, all prove that the keynote of his success, the ruling impulse of his life,
was promptness and action. So, at Egmont, no sooner did the bugle sound
the advance than he was off with his men like a sprinter at the crack of the
pistol. Others might follow; he would lead. They were part of the advance
guard of a column of 10,000 men. The enemy was in front in superior
numbers, but their weakness lay in underrating the courage of the British.
They had been taught to consider English soldiers the most undisciplined
rabble in the world!
This was a factor unknown and unheeded by Brock. All that he knew was
that an obstacle barred the way.
"Steady, the 49th!"
The loud, clear notes of the leader rang above rasping of scabbards and
suggestive clank of steel. The men straightened. A suppressed exclamation
ran along the line and died to a whisper. Whispers faded into silence. A
fraction of a second, perhaps, and then, high above the stillness, when
British and French alike were silently appealing to the God of battles, over
steaming dyke and yellow sand-dunes rose once more in trumpet tones
the well-known voice, "Charge, men, and use your bayonets with
resolution!" No rules were followed as to the order of going--the ground,
to use Brock's words, was too rough, "like a sea in a heavy storm"--but the
dogs of war were let loose. The quarry was at bay. Another instant and
the air was split with yells, the clash of naked steel and screams of agony.
Then cheer upon cheer, as the British swept irresistibly on, and the enemy,
declining to face the glittering bayonets and unable to resist the impact of
the English, wavered, broke and retreated.
The shedding of men's blood by man is never an edifying spectacle. The
motive that prompts the attack or repels it, the blind obedience that entails
the sacrifice, the retribution that follows, are more or less understandable.
What of the compensation? There may be times when a pure principle is at
stake and must be upheld despite all hazards, but there are times when
there is no principle at stake whatever. These considerations, however,
have no place in the soldier's manual. They are questions for the court, not
the camp, and cannot be argued on the battlefield. The soldier is not
invited to reason why, though many an unanswerable question by a dying
hero has been whispered in the trenches.
There was much carnage at Egmont-op-Zee, and many a 49th grenadier
"lost the number of his mess." Isaac directly after the fight wrote to his
brothers that "Nothing could exceed the gallantry of his men in the
charge." To his own wound he referred in his usual breezy and impersonal
way. "I got knocked down," he said, "soon after the enemy began to
retreat, but never quitted the field, and returned to my duty in less than
half an hour."
We must appeal to his brother Savery for the actual facts. "Isaac was
wounded," said Savery, in reply to a request for particulars, "and his life
was in all probability preserved by the stout cotton handkerchief which, as
the air was very cold, he wore over a thick black silk cravat, both of which
were perforated by a bullet, and which prevented it entering his neck. The
violence of the blow, however, was so great as to stun and dismount him,
and his holsters were also shot through."
That the action had been a hot one can be best judged by the official
returns. Out of 391 rank and file of the 49th in the field, there were 110
casualties--30 killed, 50 wounded and 30 missing. Savery Brock shared the
honours with his brother. Oblivious to a hurricane of bullets, he rode from
sand-hill to sand-hill, encouraging the men until his truancy was noticed
and he was halted by Isaac.
"By the Lord Harry, Master Savery," shouted the colonel, loud as he could
pitch his powerful voice, as the big paymaster strode by, his horse having
been shot under him, "did I not order you, unless you remained with the
General, to stay with your iron chest? Go back, sir, immediately." To which
Savery answered, playfully, "Mind your regiment, Master Isaac. You surely
would not have me quit the field now." Of this intrepid brother Isaac wrote,
"Nothing could surpass Savery's activity and gallantry." Another of the
wounded at Egmont was Lord Aylmer, afterwards Governor-General of
British North America. The loss of the enemy was estimated at 4,000. Two
weeks later the British troops--while suffering intensely from severe
weather--met with a reverse in the field, to which, through a
misunderstanding of orders, their Russian allies contributed. The Duke of
York was ordered to evacuate the country. The campaign had resulted in
much experience and high honour for Brock. Quick to perceive and learn,
his powers of observation on the field had enriched his mind with lessons
in the tactics of war never to be forgotten.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF COLONEL JAMES FITZGIBBON]
In the ranks of the 49th was a young Irishman of superior talents. Brock
was not slow to discover his abilities, and "with a discrimination that
honoured both," he later appointed this combative private sergeant-major.
Still later he procured him an ensigncy in the 49th, finally appointing him
adjutant, promotion that the ability and gallantry of James FitzGibbon, a
Canadian veteran of 1812, and the "hero of Beaver Dams"
(Adjutant-General of Canada, 1837, and Military Knight of Windsor, 1851),
amply justified.
If Brock was quick to appreciate merit, he was no less so in detecting
defects. The Russian soldiers came in for scathing criticism. The type at
Egmont impressed him most unfavourably. The clumsy Russian foot-soldier
was his special aversion. The accuracy of his criticism has been confirmed
by military writers, but this book is not for the purpose of weighing the
quality of Russian valour in Holland. Six thousand of these Russian allies,
the lateness of the season preventing their return home, were later
quartered for six months in Guernsey.
While our hero was a severe military critic, he was never an unjust one,
neither did he spare his own men. Though not a martinet, which was
foreign to every fibre of his nature, he was a stickler for rigid discipline.
When the expedition was recalled, he was first quartered in Norwich, and
then at the old familiar barracks of St. Helier, in Jersey. On his return to the
latter place, in 1800, after leave of absence, he found that the junior
lieutenant-colonel of the 49th--Colonel Sheaffe--had incurred the
reasonable dislike of the men. The regiment was drawn up on the sands
for morning parade, standing at ease. In company with this unpopular
officer Brock appeared upon the scene. He was greeted with three hearty
cheers. The personal honour, however, was lost sight of in the act of
disobedience. Rebuking the men severely for "their most unmilitary
conduct," they were marched to quarters and confined to barracks for a
week. He would not, he explained, allow public exaltation of himself at the
expense of another.
The next year found our hero in the Baltic Sea, aboard the _Ganges_,
detailed for active duty as second in command of the land forces that
under Lord Nelson were ordered to the attack on Copenhagen. It was
intended that Brock, with the 49th, should lead in storming the Trekroner
(Three Crown) battery, in conjunction with five hundred seamen; but the
heroic defence by the Danes rendered the attempt impracticable, and
Brock remained on the _Ganges_, an unwilling spectator of bloodshed in
which he took no part. Towards the close of the engagement--the heaviest
pounding match in history--he was on the _Elephant_, Nelson's flagship,
and saw the hero of Trafalgar write his celebrated letter to the Crown
Prince of Denmark.
As at Egmont, the irrepressible conduct of Savery Brock on the _Ganges_
gave our hero much concern. Savery, as a former midshipman, was of
course a gunner. While training a quarter-deck gun on the Trekroner
battery his hat was blown from his head and he was knocked down by the
rush of wind from a grapeshot. Seeing this, Brock exclaimed, "Ah, poor
Savery! He is indeed dead." But, to use his own words, it was only "the
hot air from the projectile that had 'floored' him." Previous to this he had
driven Isaac almost demented by stating his intention of joining the
storming party and sharing his brother's danger. "Is it not enough that one
brother should be killed or drowned?" said Isaac. But Savery persisted
until, at Isaac's request, the commander of the _Ganges_ kept the
paymaster quiet by stratagem. "Master Savery," said he, "you simply
_must_ remain with us. I appoint you captain of the gun. It will amuse you."
The loss of the Danes at Copenhagen was placed at 6,000, including
prisoners. The British killed and wounded numbered 943, more than fell at
the Battle of the Nile. Part of this loss is charged to a criminal
misconception of military etiquette. To a line officer who asked where his
men should be stationed, the captain of the battleship replied, that as
soldiers were no good with big guns, and as the forts were out of musket
range, he should "send them between decks." This, said the infantryman,
"would be eternal disgrace." In deference to this brutal conception of
military ethics, the men were drawn up on the gangway and, standing at
attention, were allowed to be mowed down by Danish grapeshot. The
49th, on its return to England from Copenhagen, thoroughly initiated in the
cruel cult of war, was ordered to Colchester.
Isaac Brock, with the bay-leaves of distinction on his brow, and his heart
touched but not dismayed at the ferocity of war, had passed the _second_
milestone of his life.
CHAPTER V.
BROCK IN CANADA.
Isaac Brock received with regret his orders to proceed with the 49th to
Canada. Europe was still in the clutches of war. Great opportunities
awaited the soldier of fortune in the struggle waging in the Peninsula. The
prospect for military advancement in Canada was not encouraging. America
was at peace. Canada was but slowly developing. While her exports of
lumber and fish attracted the attention of the British merchant, her great
resources were unknown except to the fur trader and the few United
States speculators whose cupidity kept pace with their knowledge. Though
the known sympathy of the United States for France was regarded as a
possible excuse for hostility towards England, as yet this sympathy had
found no official utterance, hence the outlook from a soldier's standpoint
was far from desirable. Brock's life in the West Indies had created a
distaste for garrison duty. While a past master in the details of barrack life,
his career under arms had created an aversion for the grind of drill and
parade.
Life in the high latitudes of Canada would present a clean-cut contrast to
tropical Barbadoes, but it was out of harmony with his ambition, and,
judging by his spirits, he might have been embarking for penal servitude at
Botany Bay rather than for the land which was to bring him lasting fame.
Even the attentions of the devoted Dobson, who had just filled his pipe,
did not serve to arouse him. Brock's depression was short-lived. His
optimism and faith banished gloomy thoughts. The ship had hardly
dropped the last headland of the Irish coast when the winds bred in
Labrador awoke the Viking strain in him and filled his soul with hope. The
swinging seas of this northern ocean revived thoughts of the long-ago
exploits of Sebastian Cabot, the discoverer of Newfoundland, and of his
own sea-dog ancestors, those rough-riders of the sea who had defied the
banks of Sable Island and returned to St. Peter's Port with their rich
cargoes of contraband, looking innocent as kittens, while the ship was
bursting with fur, fin and feather. So, pipe in mouth, with the frigate
close-hauled, watching her bows splintering the sea into a million jewels,
he left care behind, and thenceforward his busy brain was forming plans
that would soften his exile in that land of chilling promise he was
approaching.
He had been told to expect magnificent scenery, but was quite unprepared
for the picture that the Gulf of St. Lawrence unfolded. The Straits of Belle
Isle, the Magdalen Islands, the brazen bosom of the Bay of Chaleur that
had allured Jacques Cartier 265 years before, the might of the noble river
and the glorious vista of the citadel and frowning heights of Quebec,
where Wolfe and Montcalm fell--the ancient Stadacona framed in the
sunset--amazed him. A presage of coming conflict crowded his brain.
"Manfully tell me the truth."
Carr, an educated soldier of the 49th, was hesitating. Desertions had been
frequent at Quebec, and discipline _must_ be restored. Stepping up, with
hand clenched, the officer continued, "Don't lie! Tell the truth like a man.
You know I have ever treated you kindly." The confession of intended
desertion followed. "Go, then," said Colonel Brock,--"go and tell your
deluded comrades everything that has passed here, and also that I will
still treat every man of you with kindness, and then you may desert me if
you please."
During the three years of his command at Montreal, York, Fort George and
Quebec, though mutiny was epidemic in both Europe and America, Brock
had lost but one man by desertion. He had won the loyalty of the rank and
file. FitzGibbon said of him that "he created by his judicious praise the
never-failing interest of the men in the ranks." His accurate knowledge of
human nature served him in the graver experiences of life which followed.
His stay in Quebec was short. A study of the ancient citadel and its
incomplete fortifications occupied his time. In the summer of 1803 he was
stationed at York, a hamlet carved out of the backwoods, sustaining a
handful of people, but famous as the gathering-place of many wise men.
He found that desertions in Upper Canada had become too frequent. The
temptations offered by a long line of frontier easy of access, and the
desperate discipline in the army, had led to much brutality in the way of
punishments.
Such were the conditions in Upper Canada when Brock reached York.
Shortly after his arrival six men, influenced by an artificer, stole a military
batteau and started across the lake to Niagara. By midnight Brock, with his
trusty sergeant-major and the ever-watchful Dobson, in another batteau
with twelve men, passed out of the western gap in hot pursuit of the
defaulters. Though the night was calm the trip was perilous. Before them
stretched a waste of water, but our hero was in his element. He was living
over again his daring visits to the Casquets through the furious seas that
raced between St. Sampson and the Isle of Herm.
The crew was divided into "watches," six taking an hour's "breather" while
the other six rowed, hour and hour about, alternately rowing and resting.
When the wind served they hoisted their big square sail, our hero at the
tiller. On this occasion there was little wind, and "Master Isaac," for
example's sake, and "to keep my biceps and fore-arm in good
condition"--as he told the sergeant-major--took his regular spells at the
oar. On arriving at Fort George, Colonel Hunter, Governor and
Commandant, rebuked him for rashly venturing across the lake in an open
boat, "a risk," he said, "never before undertaken."[1] The expedition,
however, was successful, for the deserters were surprised on the
American shore and made prisoners.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Lake Ontario was crossed from Toronto to the wharf at the mouth of
the Niagara River in an ordinary double-scull, lap-strake pleasure-skiff, by
the writer and another Argonaut--Herbert Bartlett--one unruly morning in
the summer of 1872. Though a risky row, and not previously attempted, it
was not regarded as a remarkable feat by the performers.
[Illustration: VIEW OF QUEENSTON ROAD, ABOUT 1824]
CHAPTER VI.
BRIDLE-ROAD, BATTEAU AND CANOE.
The means for transit through Canada at this time was most primitive, and
not the least of the questions which occupied Brock's thoughts was the
important one of transportation. The lack of facilities for moving large
bodies of men and supplies, in event of war, was as apparent as was the
lack of vessels of force on lake and river.
Between Quebec and Montreal, a distance of sixty leagues, the overland
journey was divided into twenty-four stages, requiring four relays of
horse-caleches in summer and horse-carioles in winter. The time occupied
was three days, and the rate for travellers twenty-five cents a league. This
rough road--which entailed numerous ferries in summer at the Ottawa and
at Lake St. Francis, except for a break of fifty miles--led by Cornwall and
Prescott to Kingston, along which route United Empire Loyalists twenty
years before had established themselves.
A few years prior to Brock's arrival, Governor Simcoe, with the men of the
Queen's Rangers, had cut a roadway through the dense forest between
Prescott and Burlington, at the head of Lake Ontario. From Ancaster, the
then western limit of the U.E. Loyalists' settlement, this road traversed the
picturesque region that surrounded the Mohawk village on the Grand River,
where Joseph Brant, the famous warrior, was encamped with his Six
Nation Indians. From this point it penetrated the rolling lands of the
western peninsula, to the La Trenche (the Thames River), from whence
Lake St. Clair and the Detroit outlet to the great lakes was reached by
water. Another military road, also built by Simcoe, followed the old Indian
trail through thirty-three miles of forest from York to Lake Simcoe. This
shorter route to Lake Superior enabled the North-West Fur
Company--established by Frobisher and McTavish, of Montreal, in 1776--to
avoid canoeing up the Ottawa and its tortuous tributaries. The batteaux
were brought up the St. Lawrence, breaking bulk at certain "carrying
places," then under sail up Lake Ontario to York. From here the cargoes
were hauled by horses over Yonge's military road to Lake Simcoe, thence
by river and stormy Lake Huron to Fort Michilimackinac, Great Turtle
Island--the Mackinaw of to-day--at the head of Lake Michigan. By this route
fifty dollars was saved on every ton of freight from Ottawa to the middle
north. At Mackinaw the goods were reshipped by bark canoe to the still
remoter regions in the further West, where Spanish pedlars on the
southern tributaries of the lower Mississippi traded with the Akamsea
Indians in British goods distributed from Mackinaw.
The records of these trips through a wilderness of forest and stream, with
their exhilarating hardships, had a singular fascination for Isaac Brock. It
was not long before he had won, with his conquering ways and robust
manhood, the allegiance of the big-hearted fur-traders in Montreal. Their
wild legends of the great fur country rang in his ears, and his receptive
mind was soon stored with the exploits of Radisson and Groseillers,
Joliette, Marquette, and other famous pathfinders, with whose exploits a
century and a half before, aided by his fluency in French, he became
wonderfully familiar.
He found the evolution of the Canadian highway a subject of absorbing
interest. From his Caughnawaga guides he learned how the tracks made
by lynx and beaver, rabbit and wolverine, wolf and red deer--invariably the
safest and firmest ways--were in turn naturally followed by Indian
voyageur and fur-trader, until the blazed trail became the bridle-road for
the pack-horse of the pioneer. This, as the white settler drifted in, became
the winter-road; then, as civilization stifled the call of the wild, there
uprose from swamp and muskeg the crude corduroy, expanding by
degrees into the half-graded highway, until the turnpike and toll-bar, with
its despotic keeper, exacted its tribute from progress. This was the prelude
to a still more amazing transformation, for the day soon came, though not
in our hero's time, when the drumming of the partridge was silenced by the
choo-choo of the locomotive as it shrieked through forest and
beaver-meadow on its way to vaster tracks, further and further west,
disclosing and leaving in its trail an empire of undreamed-of fertility. Then
the redman, disturbed in his solitudes, was confronted with civilization, and
had to accept the terms of conquest or seek another sanctuary in the
greater wilderness beyond.
The navigation of the lakes and rivers at this time was limited to three
types of vessel, the "snow," a three-master with a try-sail abaft the
mainmast, the schooner, the batteau and the birch canoe, and, in closely
land-locked waters, the horse ferry. The Durham boat, a batteau on a
larger scale with false keel, had yet to be introduced. The bark canoe,
which for certain purposes has never been improved upon--not even
excepting the cedar-built canoe--varied in size from nine to thirty feet, or,
in the language of the voyageur, from one and a half to five fathoms.
These canoes had capacity for a crew of from one to thirty men, or a cargo
of seventy "pieces" of ninety pounds each, equal to three tons, exclusive
of provisions for nine paddlers. In these arks of safety, manned by Indians
or _metis_ (half-breeds), the fur-trader would leave Lachine, on the St.
Lawrence, ascend the Ottawa, descend the French, cross Lake Huron--the
Lake Orleans of Nicollet and Hennepin--and find no rest from drench or
riffle until he reached Mackinaw, or more distant Fort Dearborn (now
Chicago), on the Skunk River, at the head of Lake Michigan, 1,450 miles by
water from Quebec.
The batteaux--great, open, flat-bottomed boats, forty feet long and eight
feet beam, pointed at stem and stern--were not unlike the York boats used
in Lord Wolseley's Red River expedition in 1870, and would carry five tons
of cargo. Rigged with a movable mast stepped almost amid-ships, and a
big lug-sail, these greyhounds of the lakes were, for passengers in our
hero's time, often the only means of water transport between Quebec and
Little York. As important factors in the transport of soldiers and munitions
in the war of 1812, they deserve description.
While sailing well when before the wind, they yet, with their defective rig
and keelless bottoms, carrying no weather helm, made little headway with
the wind close abeam. On one occasion Isaac Brock left Lachine with a
brigade of five batteaux, so that all hands could unite in making the
portages. At the Cascades, the Milles Roches and the Cedars,
three-quarters of the cargo had to be portaged by the packmen. At times
these lightened boats were poled or tracked through the broken water,
towed by the men, from such foothold as the rocky banks afforded, by
means of a long lariat tied to the boat's bow, with loops over each
trackman's shoulder, one man steering with a long sweep. When this
treadmill work was impossible, owing to too steep banks, and where no
batteau locks existed, the crew hauled the boats across the portage on a
skidway of small rolling logs, and, so journeying, Prescott was reached.
Here, the wind being favourable, lug-sails were hoisted and Brock's
strange fleet started for Kingston, reaching it after twelve days' toil from
Lachine, then coasting further along Lake Ontario to Little York (Toronto).
When wind failed, the long oars were used, the men rising from the
thwarts to pull, standing. Thus, alternately sitting and rising, pulling in
unison, the light-hearted voyageurs would break into one of their wild
French chants, quaint with catching refrain, in which our hero soon learned
to join.
At Prescott Brock sometimes took the Government schooner, paying two
guineas for a trip, which might last a week, or caught one of the small
"two-stickers" that carried freight between Kingston and Queenston. If
much pressed for time, the batteau would be exchanged for a caleche--the
stage-coach was as yet only a dream--and he would resign himself to a
rude jolting over the colonization road through the forest that flanked the
rugged northern shore of Lake Ontario.
These trips were a never-failing source of surprise and profit. The skill of
the canoemen, the strength and endurance of the packmen, excited his
admiration. What wonderful raw material! Given drill and discipline, what
might not be achieved on the frontier with such craftsmen! The muscles, all
whipcord, of these rugged Canadians, part _coureur de bois_, part scout,
amazed him. One thing was not so evident as he could have wished. Their
love seemed to be more for race and language, home and wilderness, than
for King and country. Perhaps, as he said, if the safety of their homes were
threatened, they would develop patriotism of the highest type.
But, after all, as to kings, "Who," they naively asked him, "was their king?
Surely they must be under two flags and two kings. Napoleon or George?
_Que voulez vous?_"
As their hearts seemed to be as stout as their limbs, they would, he
reflected, be unconquerable, these careless children of waste places. While
Brock thus communed, he watched. There was little to choose between
them--Narcisse, Baptiste, Louis, Jacques, Pierre--all strong as buffalo, all
agile as catamounts.
They would lift the "pieces" from the dripping canoe and land them on the
slippery rock. A minute later and Narcisse perhaps would appear, a bit
bent, to keep balanced a bag of flour, a chest of tea, a caddy of tobacco
and sundry packages of sugar or shot that made up the load resting on his
shoulders where body and nape of neck joined. This load was supported
and held together by a broad moose-hide band--a tump-line--strapped
across his forehead, his upraised hands grasping the narrowing
moose-hide stretched on either side of his lowered head, between ear and
shoulder. Brock would watch these packmen as, thus handicapped with a
load weighing from two to five hundred pounds, they set out across the
rough portage, singing, and at a dog trot, following each other in quick
succession. There was rivalry, of course, duly encouraged by Brock with a
promise of tobacco to the first man in, but it was all good-natured
competition, the last man chanting his laughing canzonet as loudly as the
first.
Our hero, with his grand physique and cleverness, was not long in
mastering the tricks of the carriers. He soon learned to build up a load and
adjust a tump-line, after which practice made the carrying of a pack almost
twice his own weight a not extraordinary performance.
These trips afforded Brock an opportunity to study Indian character. He
learned much from the packman and voyageur that was destined to be of
great value to him in his career on the western frontier, among the
outposts of civilization.
Little escaped his notice. His faculties were sharpened by contact with
these children of the wilds, whose only class-room was the forest, their
only teacher, nature. As the crushed blade or broken twig were of deepest
import to the Indian scout, so no incident of his life was now too trivial for
Brock to dismiss as of no importance.
CHAPTER VII.
MUTINY AND DESERTION.
Brock could hardly reconcile the degree of punishment inflicted upon the
soldiers, the poorly paid defenders of the Empire, with their casual
offences. While he rebelled against the brutalities of some officers, he was
powerless to prevent them. The sentencing powers conferred by
court-martial were at that time beyond belief. A captain and two subalterns
could order 999 lashes with a "cat" steeped in brine. It is on record that on
one occasion a soldier was sentenced to 1,500 lashes for "marauding."
And there were other modes of torture. This was close upon the heels of a
period when even the slightest breaches of the civil law were punished out
of all proportion to the offence. While insisting on the strictest discipline,
Brock always tempered justice with mercy. Few men better realized the
value of a pleasant word or had in such degree the rare tact that
permitted familiarity without killing respect.
A terrible incident occurred in the summer of 1803 which tested all Brock's
fortitude and conception of duty. A conspiracy to mutiny was discovered at
Fort George on the Niagara River. The methods of the commanding officer
had exasperated the men until they planned mutiny on a large scale. This
included the murder of Colonel Sheaffe and the incarceration of the other
officers. A threatening remark by a soldier of the 49th was overheard. He
was arrested and put in irons. A confession by another soldier implicated a
well-known sergeant, and a message was sent to York begging Brock's
immediate presence.
Our hero landed from the schooner alone. It was dinner hour. The
barrack-square, as Brock crossed it to the guard-house, was deserted. In
charge of the guard he found two of the suspected ringleaders. The guard
presented arms. "Sergeant," said the colonel of towering frame and
commanding aspect, "come here. Lay down your pike." The order was
promptly complied with. "Take off your sword and sash and lay them down
also." This was done. "Corporal O'Brien," said the colonel, addressing the
sergeant's brother-conspirator, "bring a pair of handcuffs, put them on this
sergeant, lock him up in a cell, and bring me the key." This, too, was done.
"Now, corporal, you come here; lay down your arms, take off your
accoutrements, and lay them down also." He was obeyed. Turning to the
right man of the guard, "Come here, you grenadier. Bring a pair of
handcuffs and put them on this corporal, lock him up in another cell, and
bring me the key." When this was done, turning to the astounded
drummer, our hero said, "Drummer, beat to arms."
The garrison was aroused. First to rush out was Lieutenant Williams,
sword in hand. "Williams!" said the Colonel, "go instantly and secure
Rock"--a former sergeant, recently reduced. "If he hesitates to obey, even
for one second, cut him down." Up the stairs flew Williams, calling to Rock
to come down. "Yes, sir," answered Rock, "when I take my arms." "You
must come without them," said Williams. "Oh, I must have my arms, sir,"
and as Rock stretched out his hand to seize his musket in the arm-rack,
Williams shouted, "If you lay one finger on your musket I will cut you
down," at the same time drawing his sabre. "Now, go down before me."
Rock obeyed, was placed in irons, and within half an hour Clark, O'Brien,
and nine other mutineers were embarked for York on the schooner.
What a picture rises before us. The mid-day sun, the glittering
barrack-square, the scarlet and white tunics and polished side-arms of the
frightened soldiers, with Brock, the embodiment of power and stern justice,
towering above the shrinking culprits. Expiation of the offence had yet to
follow. The appetite of the law had to be appeased. The trial took place at
Quebec. Four mutineers and three deserters were condemned to death,
and in the presence of the entire garrison were executed. The details of
this are best unwritten. Through a shocking blunder, the firing party
discharged their carbines when fifty yards distant, instead of advancing to
within eight yards of the victims. The harrowing scene rent Brock's heart.
That the men who had fought so bravely under him at Egmont and laughed
at the carnage at Copenhagen should end their lives in this manner was
inexpressibly sad. After reading the account of the execution of their
comrades to the men on parade at Fort George, Brock added, "Since I have
had the honour to wear the British uniform I have never felt grief like this."
The prisoners publicly declared that had they continued under our hero's
command they would have escaped their doom, "being the victims of
unruly passions inflamed by vexatious authority."
When Brock assumed command every possible privilege was extended to
the troops at Fort George. For every request, however trivial, he knew
there was some reason. His mind was big enough to trade in trifles.
In view of these desertions, the prospect of hostilities between Canada
and the United States became a momentous one. By close study of events
in France and America and intercourse with prominent United States
citizens, Brock detected the signs that precede trouble.
But the grave question of desertion and the war-cloud on the horizon
could not occupy our hero's attention to the exclusion of other demands
upon his time. Canada's growing importance was attracting many
travellers from over-seas. Notable among these was Thomas Moore, the
brilliant Irish poet, who was our hero's guest at Fort George for two weeks
in the summer of 1803. Every attraction that the peninsula presented was
taxed for his entertainment. Of these diversions the one which probably
left the most lasting impression on the versatile son of Erin was a
gathering of the Tuscarora warriors, under Chief Brant, at the Indian
encampment on the Grand River.
"Here," wrote Moore, in one of his celebrated epistles, "the Mohawks
received us in all their ancient costumes. The young men ran races for our
amusement, and gave an exhibition game of ball, while the old men and
the women sat in groups under the surrounding forest trees. The scene
altogether was as beautiful as it was new to me. To Colonel Brock, in
command of the fort, I am particularly indebted for his many kindnesses
during the fortnight I remained with him."
It was while Moore was paddling down the St. Lawrence with his
Caughnawaga voyageurs, after leaving Niagara--where he saw the
fountains of the great deep broken up--that he composed his celebrated
boat-song:
"Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!"
In the fall of 1805 our hero was gazetted full colonel, and returned to
England on leave. While he had lost none of the buoyancy of his youth, he
was daily realizing the fullness of his responsibilities.
For the better defence of Canada, he submitted to the Duke of York, the
Commander-in-Chief, a suggestion for the forming of a veteran battalion.
He quoted the case of the U.E. Loyalists, who after the Revolutionary war,
had been granted small tracts in Upper Canada; contrasting their perfect
conduct with the practices of some of the settlers ten years later, whose
loyalty, from his own observation, would not stand the test. Our hero, who
was warmly thanked by the Duke for his zeal, was now regarded as a
person to be reckoned with. His abilities and charm of manner had won him
a reputation at the Horse Guards.
He returned to Guernsey to receive the congratulations of those brothers
"who loved him so dearly," but had not time to tell the graphic story of his
sojourn in Canada or revisit the haunts of his boyhood, for news arrived
from the United States of so warlike a character that he returned before
his leave expired. He overtook at Cork the _Lady Saumarez_, a
well-manned Guernsey privateer, armed with letters of marque, and bound
for Quebec. Leaving London on the 26th of June, 1806, he set sail for
Canada, never to return to those to whom he had so endeared himself by
his splendid qualities.
[Illustration: RUINS OF OLD POWDER MAGAZINE, FORT GEORGE]
CHAPTER VIII.
FRANCE, THE UNITED STATES AND CANADA.
Shortly after his return to Quebec, Isaac Brock succeeded to the command
of the troops in both Upper and Lower Canada, with the pay and
allowance of a brigadier.
Though no overt act had been committed against Canada by the United
States, relations were strained, and he found much to occupy his time. His
humanity stirred, he set about erecting hospitals, reorganized the
commissariat department, and engaged in an unpleasant dispute with
President Dunn, the civil administrator of Lower Canada, regarding the
fortifications of the Citadel. To-day deep in plans for mobilizing the militia
and the formation of a Scotch volunteer corps of Glengarry settlers;
to-morrow devising the best way of utilizing an Indian force in the event of
war. In June, 1807, the affair between the British gunboat _Leopard_ and
the American frigate _Chesapeake_ occurred. The former boarded the
latter in search of deserters, and on being challenged, gave the
_Chesapeake_ a broadside. While the _Leopard_ was clearly in the wrong,
the United States Government rejected every offer of reparation made by
Britain. Then came retaliation. French vessels--though France was at war
with Britain--were actually allowed by the United States, a neutral power,
full freedom of its harbours. The ships of Britain, a power at peace with the
United States of America, were refused the same privilege.
For a proper understanding of the position we must unroll a page of
history. Napoleon, though he crushed the Prussians at Jena, could not
efface the memory of his own humiliation at Trafalgar. His ears tingled. He
was waiting to deliver a blow that would equalize the destruction of his
fleet by Nelson. Though Britain remained mistress of the seas, surely,
thought the "little corporal," a way could be found to humble her. If her
sources of food supply, for instance, could be cut off, "the wings of her
war-ships would be clipped."
To this end Napoleon issued an arrogant proclamation, which was of
far-reaching effect. It authorized the destruction of all British goods and all
colonial produce shipped to any European port by a British vessel. It
allowed the seizure by France of all ships, of whatever nation, which had
even _called_ at a British port. To this the United States raised no
objection, though it was in violation of the world's law in respect to nations
which were at peace with each other. The United States' President
evidently believed that British resentment at Napoleon's decree would
sooner or later provide the United States with an excuse for a
disagreement with Britain. He was not mistaken. Britain at once announced
that she in her turn would prohibit the ships of other nations visiting
French ports until they had first called at a British port. But two wrongs do
not make a right. England also, being short of seamen by desertion,
insisted that she had the right to search for British seamen on American
vessels.
This was a questionable proceeding, and not always carried out in the
most amiable manner, as the _Chesapeake_ incident proves, and
occasionally led to seizing American seamen, native-born citizens of the
United States, in mistake for British-born deserters.
Meanwhile Brock found "the military and the people of Quebec divided by
opposing elements of dissatisfaction." His call for one thousand men for
two months to complete the defences of the Citadel was met by the
Provincial Government with what was practically a refusal. He persisted in
his purpose, and despite drawbacks which would have deterred a less
dominant nature, he erected a battery, mounting eight thirty-six pound
guns, raised upon a cavalier bastion, in the centre of the Citadel, so as to
command the opposite heights of Point Levis.
Alive to the probability of invasion, and to the defenceless state of the
Canadian frontier and the extreme apathy of the Quebec Government,
Colonel Brock warned the War Office. He stated that, as the means at his
disposal were quite inadequate to oppose an enemy in the field, with a
provincial frontier of 500 miles, he would perforce confine himself to the
defence of the city of Quebec. The Lower Canadians, willing to undergo
training, had formed themselves into corps of cavalry, artillery and infantry,
at no expense to the Government, but the Government gave them no
encouragement.
This was the state of affairs in Quebec when Lieutenant-General Sir James
Craig arrived to take office as Governor-General of the British Provinces in
North America as well as Commander of the Forces. Brock soon became the
_confidant_ of the new administrator, who was not slow to observe the
exceptional capacity of our hero. The day came all too quickly for the
Governor when occasion arose for the presence of a strong man to take
command in Montreal, and with great reluctance he had to call upon Isaac
Brock to assume the office.
CHAPTER IX.
FUR-TRADERS AND HABITANTS.
Montreal--the Mount Royal of Jacques Cartier--was then in the heyday of
its pioneer glory. It was the seat of government of the North-West
Company, which exercised feudal sway over an empire of wilderness, lake
and prairie, and whose title to monopoly was challenged only by the
powerful Hudson's Bay Company. Since 1670 this older syndicate of
adventurers had held the destinies of the great lone land in the farther
North-West, its fruitful plains and pathless forests, in the hollow of its
hand. Later, when the two companies amalgamated, their joint operations
extended from Alaska to Rupert's Land, from Oregon to the Sandwich
Islands, from Vancouver to Labrador, an empire embracing an area of
4,500,000 square miles.
At Montreal Brock lived with these merchant princes on terms of close
intimacy. He was sensible enough, as a man of the world, to enjoy the
creature comforts of life. The blazing log-fire, with its glow and crackle, in
contrast to the blizzard that raged outside; the dim-lighted splendour of
spacious dining-hall, with hewn rafters and savage trophies of the
explorers; the polished oak floor and carved ceiling, hung with rare fur and
gaudy feathers, appealed to him.
The rubber of whist over, came the fragrant _perfecto_--these traders
ransacked the world for their tobacco--and Brock, under the influence of
the soothing weed, would charm these wild vagrants into unlocking some
of the strange secrets of the wilderness. From these usually silent but
sometimes garrulous merchants he acquired during the long winter nights
a fund of facts that greatly influenced his future actions.
Being superseded at Montreal by General Drummond, he did not relish a
return to Quebec. Separation from the 49th meant actual pain, but, as he
said, "Soldiers must accustom themselves to frequent movements, and as
they have no choice, it often happens they are placed in situations little
agreeing with their wishes." His regrets were lessened by his promotion to
the rank of brigadier-general. But he prayed for active service, still trying to
secure a staff appointment in Portugal, and awaited the result of his
brother Savery's efforts, hoping he might yet be ordered to join "the best
disciplined army that ever left England."
"Your Excellency," he said to the Governor-General, "I _must_ see active
service, or had much better quit the army, for I can look for no advantage if
I remain buried in inaction in this remote corner of the earth, without the
least mention ever likely being made of me."
Unsuspected by our hero, fate in his case was only "marking time."
Day after day Brock saw British ships weigh anchor at Quebec with
Canadian timber for the building of English vessels of war. The importance
of these Canadian provinces to Great Britain awoke in him dreams of a
federation of all the colonies. Cargoes of timber, that would require more
than 400 vessels to transport, were then lying on the beaches of the St.
Lawrence. "Bonaparte," he wrote, "coveted these vast colonial areas, and
desired to repossess them."
Brock's mind was busy trying to solve these problems. "A small French
force of 5,000 men," he told the Governor, "could most assuredly conquer
the Province of Quebec. In the event of French invasion, would the volatile
Lower Canadian people, in spite of all their privileges, remain loyal?" A
certain class of _habitant_ argued that Napoleon, who was sure to
conquer Europe, would of course seize the Canadas, encouraged by the
United States. "Would Englishmen," asked Brock, "if positions were
reversed, be any more impatient to escape from possible British rule than
were French Canadians from the possible rule of France?"
"Blood, my good FitzGibbon," he declared to his _protégé_, "is thicker than
water. You cannot expect to get men to change their nature, or the
traditions of their race, through an act of parliament at twenty-four hours'
notice. Old thoughts and habits die hard."
Though Brock's perceptive faculties were well developed, his forecasts,
built upon the evidences of opposition among certain Lower Canadians,
happily proved only in part correct. Later, when his plan of campaign was
menaced by still greater disaffection in Upper Canada, he found he had not
reckoned on the influence of his own example, which, added to his power
of purpose, "disconcerted the disloyal." In proof of this fact Detroit and
Queenston Heights were splendid examples.
It was this spirit of unrest among the people of Quebec that moved Sir
James Craig to keep Brock within easy reach until the growing discord in
Upper Canada called for the presence of a man of tact and resolution, one
to whom all things seemed possible--and Brock knew no such word as
"impossible." On one occasion the "faithful sergeant-major" had ventured
to declare that a certain order was "impossible." "'Impossible!'" repeated
Brock, "nothing should be 'impossible' to a soldier. The word 'impossible'
must not be found in a soldier's vocabulary."
CHAPTER X.
THE MASSACRE AT MACKINAW.
It was while stationed in Montreal that our hero met Alexander Henry,
ex-fur-trader and adventurer and _coureur de bois_--then a merchant and
King's auctioneer--a notable personage and leader in many a wild exploit
in the far West, an old though virile man after Isaac's own heart.
From Henry he learned much of the Indian wars in the West, and the
strategic value of various points on the frontier, possession of which in the
event of war he foresaw would be worth a king's ransom. Not least were
details respecting Michilimackinac, the Mackinaw already referred to. Nearly
half a century before, Henry, a native of New Jersey, of English
parents--his ambition fired by tales of the fabulous fortunes to be made in
the fur trade--obtained from the commandant at Montreal a permit to
proceed west as a trader. He outfitted at Albany, and the following
summer set out for Mackinaw.
Meanwhile the Indian allies, under control of the great Pontiac, were
fighting immigration and civilization. Between Fort Pitt--Pittsburgh-- and the
Fox River, in Wisconsin, the home of the Sacs and Foxes, they had
captured nine out of thirteen military posts, and were secretly planning the
downfall of Fort Mackinaw. This was regarded as an impregnable post and
vulnerable only through strategy--in Indian parlance another name for
duplicity. Fort Mackinaw, as Brock well knew, was the most important
trading _entrepôt_ west of Montreal. It served a territory extending from
the Missouri in the west to the far Kissaskatchewan in the north.
On Henry's arrival his friendship was sought by an Indian chief, Wawatam.
Between these two men a remarkable attachment developed. They
became brothers by mutual adoption. At this time the fort was garrisoned
by ninety British regulars. One day, outside the walls on the surrounding
plateau, several hundred savages were encamped, ostensibly for
purposes of trade, some of them killing time by playing the Indian game of
ball--the _baggatiway_ of the red-man, _la jeu de la crosse_ of the
voyageur. Henry, acting upon a veiled warning by Wawatam, suggested to
the officer in command extra precaution.
"I told him," said he, while Brock drank in every word, "that Indian
treachery was proverbial." Now this recital was of the deepest interest to
our hero, for Mackinaw, then in the possession of the United States, held
the key to the Michigan frontier and control of the upper lakes. While the
huge log fire that roared in the chimney cast light and shadow on polished
wall and the oak beams of the big dining-hall, Brock puffed away at his
huge _partiga_, weighing every word that fell from the bearded lips of the
trader.
"Major Errington," continued Henry, "while thanking me, laughed at my
forebodings. Then Wawatam urged me, as his adopted brother, to depart
for Sault Ste. Marie. But I delayed and once more sought Errington, who
still ridiculed my fears. While I was yet expostulating with him we heard
the louder shouts of the Indians. They had rushed through the fort
gateway into the enclosure within the palisades in pursuit of a lost ball.
This was but a ruse to gain admittance, for in a moment the laughter and
shouts changed to wild yells and warwhoops. The guard was overpowered
in a flash, and in the attack that followed almost the entire garrison was
tomahawked and scalped."
"Ah!" said Brock, "so British lethargy and self-complaisance succumbed to
Indian duplicity."
Then his thoughts turned to Niagara. He saw the open portals of Fort
George, and Tuscarora youths playing the Indian game of ball in the
meadows of the Mohawk village.
"Those who escaped massacre at Mackinaw," said Henry, refilling his stone
pipe and resuming his story, "were preserved for a worse fate. Pontiac's
allies--and you, Colonel, know something of these matters from the tales
told you by the officers of the North-West Company--entered on a carnival
of blood. From a garret, where a Pawnee Indian woman had secreted me,
I saw the captured soldiers tomahawked and scalped, and some
butchered like so many cattle, just as required for the cannibal feast that
followed."
"Tortured?" interrogated Brock.
"Tortured!" repeated Henry. "Why, the diabolical devices that those men
resorted to to inflict acute physical agony were inconceivable-- unutterable,
Colonel." He paused.... "After all, no worse, perhaps, than the tortures
that have been inflicted by civilized fanatics in Europe."
There was silence for a moment. Both men were buried deep in thought,
the one living in the past, the other striving to forecast the future.
"Through the intercession of Wennway, another friendly Indian," continued
Henry, "my life was spared. Preparations were made for my secret
departure. As I shoved my canoe into the water, _en voyage_ for
Wagoshene, the prayers of Wawatam rang in my ears as, standing on the
yellow beach with outstretched arms, he invoked the _Gitche Manitou_,
the Great Spirit, to conduct me in safety to the wigwams of my people."
"Surely, Master Henry," commented Isaac Brock, "with all the latent
qualities for good that seem to underlie the outward ferocity of some
redmen, firmness and kindness are alone needed to convert them into
faithful friends."
"An Indian, or Indians collectively," said Henry, pausing before he
answered,--"I speak from personal experience only--are faithful so long as
you keep absolute good faith with them. In this particular they are no
different from white people; but never deceive them, even in trifles, and
never subject them to ridicule. Then, if you treat them with consideration,
you can reasonably depend upon their individual loyalty. They expect a lot
of attention. Yes! an Indian is naturally grateful, probably far more so than
the ordinary white man, and seldom forgets a kindness. Should you come
into closer contact with the redman, Colonel, as I have a presentiment you
will before long, never forget that an Indian, by right of his mode of life, is
deeply suspicious and painfully sensitive. He has a keen sense of humour,
however, and is quick to discern and laugh at the weak points of others,
which, until you understand his language, you will be slow to suspect. On
the other hand, he won't stand being laughed at himself or placed in a
foolish position. For that matter, who can? Occasionally you will meet a
savage with strangely high principles. Among the redskins there is a
proportion of good and bad, as there is in all races, but less crime, under
normal conditions, than there is among the whites. So, summing up his
vices and virtues, the North American Indian, allowing for heredity and
surroundings, differs little from ourselves."
"They are brave," interrupted Brock.
"Oh, yes," said Henry, "splendidly reckless of life. The courage of the
fatalist I should say. You see, they are so constantly on the war-path that
fighting is a compulsory pastime."
"Still," said Brock, "with what daring they fight for their homes."
"True, Colonel," retorted Henry, "but when it comes to fighting for home, a
hummingbird will defend its nest. Their peculiar traits are largely the result
of a nomadic life and tribal strife, hence, their duplicity. Superstition
influences them greatly, as it does all savage races. In one respect they
are at least superior to some of our own people--I refer to their treatment
of their children. Their lovingkindness is pathetic. Contact with civilization,
as you may discover, develops at first all their bad qualities, for they are
apt imitators, so when the pagan Indian meets a trader without a
conscience--and there are some, you know--why, he is not slow to adopt
the bad Christian's methods."
[Illustration: BROCK'S COCKED HAT]
CHAPTER XI.
LITTLE YORK, NIAGARA, AMHERSTBURG.
In common with most great men, Brock found distraction in trifles. For
weeks prior to leaving Quebec all kinds of gayety prevailed. A visit from
Governor Gore of Upper Canada, and the arrival of the fleet from Guernsey
and two frigates from Portsmouth, gave a fillip to society. Races,
water-parties and country picnics were the order of the day. Our hero's
contribution consisted of a banquet and grand ball. He had his own
troubles, however, that even the versatile Dobson could not overcome,
and he roundly scolded his brother Irving for not sending him a new cocked
hat.[2]
"That cocked hat," he said, "has not been received; a most distressing
circumstance, as from the enormity of my head I find the utmost difficulty in
getting a substitute."
His departure for York weighed upon him. In Quebec he had the most
"delightful garden imaginable, with abundance of melons and other good
things"--these, together with his new bastions and forts, he had to desert.
Being somewhat of a philosopher, he said that since fate decreed the best
portion of his life was to be wasted in inaction, and as President Jefferson,
though he wanted war, was afraid to declare it, he supposed he should
have to be pleased with the prospect of moving upwards.
Brock had been but a few weeks at Fort George--a "most lonesome place,"
as compared with Quebec, Montreal, Kingston, or even Little York, from
which latter place he was cut off by forty miles of lake, or more than a
hundred miles of dense forest and bridgeless streams--when he decided
upon a flying trip to Detroit, where, during the French _régime_, the
adventurous Cadillac had landed in 1701. He would inspect the western
limit of the frontier now under his care and obtain at first hand a
knowledge of the peninsula. "For," as he remarked to Glegg, his aide, "if I
can read the signs aright, the two nations are rushing headlong into a
military conflict."
Two routes were open to him, one overland, the other land and water. He
chose the latter. A vast quantity of freight now reached Queenston from
Kingston. Vessels of over fifty tons sailed up the river, bearing merchandise
for the North-West Company. Salt pork from Ireland and flour from London,
Britain being the real base of supply--the remote North-West looking to
Niagara for food and clothing--the return cargoes being furs and grain. To
portage these goods around Niagara Falls kept fifty or more farmers'
waggons busy every day during the summer. A team of horses or oxen
could haul twenty "pieces," of one hundred weight each, for a load. The
entire length of the portage from Lake Ontario to Lake Erie was practically
a street, full of all the bustle and activity that a scattered country
population of 12,000 conferred upon it. Two churches, twenty stores, a
printing house, six taverns and a scholastic academy supplied the varied
wants of Niagara's 500 citizens who overfilled its one hundred dwellings.
From Lake Ontario, Newark, as it had been called, presented an inviting
appearance. The brick-and-stone court-house and jail and brightly painted
Indian council-house and cottages rose in strong contrast against the
green forest. On the river bank was Navy Hall, a log retreat for seamen,
and on Mississaga (Black Snake) Point a stone lighthouse flashed its red
signal of hope to belated mariners. Nearer the lake shore, in isolated
dignity across a mile of common, stood Fort George, a dilapidated structure
with wooden palisades and bastions. Half-acre lots in the village were
given gratis by the Government to anyone who would build, and eight
acres outside for inclosures, besides a large "commonty" for the use of the
people. A quite pretentious wharf lined the river, and from this, on any
summer afternoon, a string of soldiers and idle citizens might be
seen--among whom was Dobson--casting hook and troll for bass, trout,
pickerel and herring, with which the river swarmed. On one occasion Brock
helped to haul up a seine net in which were counted 1,008 whitefish of an
average weight of two pounds, 6,000 being netted in one day.
Side-wheel ferries, driven by horse-power, plied between the river's mouth
and the Queenston landing. The paddle-wheels of these were open
double-spoke affairs, without any circular rim. A stage-coach also ran
between Queenston and Fort Erie, the first in Upper Canada. For one
dollar the passenger could travel twenty-five miles.
At Fort Erie, at the head of the Niagara River, Brock embarked in
mid-August in a government schooner. He wished to familiarize himself
with the upper water-ways. He made the long trip from Quebec to York,
and thence to Niagara, Amherstburg, Detroit, Sandwich and return
overland to Fort George, within two months--record time. Dobson
accompanied his master. Brock was silent as to his impressions, but
admitted he was convinced that the water route for a military expedition
was the only practical one, and that Mackinaw, held by the United States,
was the portal and key to the western frontier in case of invasion. He
crossed overland through the "bad woods" and open plains to the Point of
Pines, where batteaux and canoes awaited him. From thence he
proceeded along the north shore of Lake Erie until abreast of the Miami, a
confluent of the Ohio River, on the south shore, then turned northward up
the Detroit River, twenty-five miles farther, reaching Amherstburg--called
Malden by the Americans--250 miles from Fort Erie. Here, after consulting
with Colonel St. George, he inspected the battery at Sandwich, and with
little ceremony visited Detroit--the old military post of Pontchartrain--on the
opposite side of the river, later notorious as an emporium for "rum,
tomahawks and gunpowder." From Amherstburg, a small village with an
uncompleted fort and shipyard, he sent messengers to the remote post of
St. Joseph, an island, fifty-five miles from Mackinaw, below Sault Ste. Marie,
and started homewards overland.
In returning, he skirted the great tributary marshes, alive with water-fowl
of every description, whose gabble and flapping wings could be heard at a
long distance. He camped in the vast hardwood forests that covered the
western point of the peninsula that extends west from Lake Ontario to the
river connecting Lake Huron with Lake Erie. He shot big bustards and wild
turkeys in the bush, where wolves and deer were as thick as rabbits in a
warren, and tramped the uplands, teeming with quail and prairie chicken.
Continuing by Delaware and the Government road at Oxford on the
Thames, and by the "Long Woods" over the Burford Plains to Brant's Ford,
he reached the Grand River, and then by Ancaster and the head of the lake
to Burlington, when he followed the Lake Ontario southern shore road to
Niagara.
Many of the settlers whom he met were from the Eastern States. These
were the original Loyalists or their descendants, patriots to the core. Other
more recent arrivals--perhaps two-thirds of the whole--came from
Pennsylvania, New York and New Jersey, attracted by the fertility of the
soil and freedom from taxation, or to escape militia service. These latter he
quickly realized were not the class to rely upon in event of war, but he
gave no public sign of distrust. It was from the pick of the first-mentioned
stalwarts that Brock formed his loyal Canadian militia, his gallant
supporters in the war of 1812, who made a reputation at Detroit and
Queenston that will never die.
He was more than ever sensible of the resources of the country. This
glimpse of the west enamoured him. To his "beloved brothers"--our hero
always thus addressed them--he described it as a "delightful country, far
exceeding anything I have seen on this continent." The extent of the Great
Lakes amazed him, as did their fish. From these deep cisterns he had seen
the Indian fishermen take whitefish, the _ahtikameg_ (deer-of-the-water),
twenty pounds in weight; maskinonge-- _matchi-kenonje_, the great
pike--more than twice that size, and sturgeon that weighed two hundred
pounds and over, and in such quantities that he hesitated to tell his
experiences on his return.
Henry's stories of five hundred whitefish taken with a scoop net at the
rapids of Sault Ste. Marie in two hours were no longer questioned. The size
of the red-fleshed land-locked trout (the quail-of-the-water), of pickerel
and bass, astounded him. His travels had broadened his views. The
chatter of his Iroquois and Algonquin friends was now easier of
interpretation. The riddles of the wilderness were more easily read. He
now realized how possible it was, in this continent of unsurveyed
immensity, to journey for weeks, after leaving the white man's domain
hundreds of miles behind, and then reach only the rim of another kingdom
of even far greater fertility. He also realized that beyond these laughing
lands lay a rugged world of desolation, bounded in turn by the rasping
ice-floes of the Arctic.
If Brock's mind had expanded, so had his body. He was, as he expressed
it, as "hard as nails." The close of 1811 found "Master Isaac" a grand
specimen of manhood. Inclined to be a little portly, he was still athletic. His
face, though a trifle stern, had grown more attractive, because of the
benevolent look now stamped upon it. He was still fair and florid, with a
broad forehead, and eyes though somewhat small, yet full and of a grayish
blue, a charming smile and splendid white teeth. Always the same kindly
gentleman and always a soldier. His life at Fort George had been one of
great loneliness. He read much and rapidly, and would memorize passages
from the books that had left the deepest impression. History, civil and
military, especially ancient authors, was his choice, and maps his
weakness. Over these, with his devoted aides, he would pore late into the
night, until he knew the country almost as well as his friend the
Surveyor-General. For variety he feasted upon the robust beauties of
Pope's "Homer," ever regretting he never had a master "to guide and
encourage him in his tastes."
With Lieutenant-Governor Gore, formerly a soldier in Guernsey, our hero
was on intimate terms. When the grind of duty let him, he would travel
"the worst road in the country--fit only for an Indian mail-carrier--in order
to mix in the society of York." He periodically returned these hospitalities by
a grand ball at Niagara--always the event of the season. Brock, while fond
of women's society, preferred brain to beauty. Had his old Guernsey
friends been present on these occasions they would not have recognized
in the soldier, resplendent in a general's uniform, now dancing a mazurka,
the handsome stripling who only a few years since had waltzed his way
into the hearts of all the women of St. Peter's Port.
The unrest of the Indians at Amherstburg troubled him. He had seen over
eight hundred in camp there, receiving rations for a month while waiting
presents of blankets, powder and shot from King George. They asked
British support if they took the warpath against the Americans--the
Long-knives--_Gitchi-mokohmahn_, their sworn enemies. Tecumseh, a
Shawanese chief, had demanded from the United States the restoration of
violated rights. This demand had not been complied with. The position was
critical. Great tact was required to retain the friendship of the Indians,
while not complying with their request.
In Lower Canada there was still discord among the French Canadians. The
Governor, Sir James Craig, in a dying condition, relinquished office. In
answer to Brock's application for leave, still hoping for a staff appointment
in Portugal, the Governor-General implored him to remain.
"I must," he told him, "leave the country in the best state of security I can;
your presence is needed here. I am sending you as a mark of my sincere
regard my favourite horse, Alfred." This was a high-bred animal, and our
hero's charger in the war that followed.
It was not, however, until war was regarded as unavoidable, and not until
after he was promoted to be a major-general and appointed President and
Administrator of Upper Canada, as successor to Governor Gore, that Isaac
Brock became reconciled to life in Canada, and with set purpose assumed
the duties of his high calling.
Our hero had passed his _third_ milestone.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] Miss Carnochan, as the Curator of the Niagara Historical Society the
custodian of many relics of the war of 1812, has in her keeping this
identical cocked hat. It arrived "shortly after Brock's death, and was given
by his nephew to Mr. George Ball, near whose residence the 49th was
stationed. The hat measures twenty-four inches inside, and was used at
the funeral obsequies of 1824 and 1853, when many old soldiers
requested, and were permitted, to try it on." The usage that the cocked
hat then received has not improved its appearance.
CHAPTER XII.
MAJOR-GENERAL BROCK, GOVERNOR OF UPPER CANADA.
The appointment of Brock--with his exceptional military attainments--to the
chief command in Upper Canada, at the point of greatest danger, was a
rare piece of good fortune for the colony. Of the American military leaders,
Generals Howe, Dearborn and Wadsworth were all examples of a common
standard; even Sir George Prevost, the new Governor-General of Canada
and Commander-in-Chief, was tuned in a minor key.
Isaac Brock was the man of the hour. His star was in the ascendant.
Queen Victoria's father, the Duke of Kent, was anxious to meet the soldier
whose despatches had stirred the War Office. The Duke of York was ready
to give him a brigade under Wellington, while the Governor of Jamaica, the
Duke of Manchester, then touring Canada, begged Brock, whom he looked
upon as a "universal provider," to equip him with canoes and guides for a
western pilgrimage. If Brock's promotion brought him distinction it also
brought him work--Executive Councils, court-martials, reorganization of
militia, reconstruction of the ruined forts on the Niagara frontier, the
building of gunboats, the making of roads. Never idle. To-day he was
inspecting a camp of the 49th at Three Rivers, near Montreal; next week at
Fort Erie. Ever busy, ever buoyant. Whether perusing documents, scouring
the muddy roads at Queenston, surveying the boundaries of the dreaded
Black Swamp, or visiting the points between Fort George and Vrooman's
battery on his slashing gray charger, he had a smile and cheery word for
everyone. As for Dobson, his profound awe at his master's progress was
only equalled by his devotion, that increased with the illness that
threatened his life; while the faithful sergeant-major, now Captain
FitzGibbon, in command of a company of the 49th, was reflecting great
credit on his patron. But no matter what the tax on his time, Isaac never
neglected the "beloved brothers."
In New York there had been financial failures. Brock predicted a dreadful
crash, and had so written to his brother Irving, who with William had a
bank in London. He hoped they "had withheld their confidence in public
stocks." Providence ruled otherwise. While Isaac in the solitude of his
quarters was writing this warning, the banking house in London, whose
vessels in the Baltic Sea had been seized by Bonaparte's privateers, closed
its doors. The news reached him on his birthday. He learned that a private
advance made to him by William for the purchase of his commissions had
been entered in the bank's books by mistake. He was a debtor to the
extent of £3,000.
Brock rose to the occasion. He proved himself not only a soldier but, best
of all, a just man with the highest sense of personal honour. His distress
was all for his brothers. He would sell his commission, turn over his income
as governor and surrender everything, if by doing so he could save the
fortunes of his family. Anything that not only the law but the right might
demand. This failure impaired the former good fellowship between William
and Irving Brock. Isaac wrote Irving, beseeching him to repair the breach.
"Hang the world," said he; "it is not worth a thought. Be generous, and
find silent comfort in being so. Oh, my dear brother, forget the past and let
us all unite in soothing the grief of one of the best hearts that heaven ever
formed, whose wish was to place us all in affluence. Could tears restore
him he would be happy."
But Isaac was not permitted to know that reconciliation followed his
prayers. While William and Irving were shaking hands, but before they had
even heard of the capture of Detroit, Isaac, unknown to them, was at that
moment lying cold in death within the cavalier bastion at Fort George.
Little York was now Brock's headquarters. He built dockyards to shelter His
Majesty's navy, which consisted of two small vessels! He planned new
Parliament Buildings and an arsenal, prepared township maps showing
roads and trails, fords and bridges, all of which latter were in a shocking
condition. At York the timber and brushwood was so dense that travel
between the garrison and town was actually by water. His mind made up
that war with the United States was inevitable, he was confronted with
crucial questions demanding instant solution. Chief of these was the
defence of the frontier, 1,300 miles in length, which entailed repairs of the
boundary forts, the raising of a reliable militia, the increase of the regular
troops, the building of more gunboats, and the solving of the Indian
problem.
[Illustration: BUTLER'S BARRACKS (OFFICERS' QUARTERS), NIAGARA
COMMON]
CHAPTER XIII.
THE WAR CLOUD.
A President of the United States had breezily declared that the conquest of
Canada would be "a mere matter of marching." The final expulsion of
England from the American continent he regarded as a matter of course.
Cabinet ministers at Washington and rabid politicians looked upon the
forcible annexation of Canada as a foregone conclusion.
One Massachusetts general officer, a professional fire-eater, said he
"would capture Canada by contract, raise a company of soldiers and take it
in six weeks." Henry Clay, another statesman, "verily believed that the
militia of Kentucky alone were competent to place Upper Canada at the
feet of the Americans." Calhoun, also a "war-hawk," had said that "in four
weeks from the time of the declaration of war the whole of Upper and part
of Lower Canada would be in possession of the United States." All of this
was only the spread-eagle bombast of amateur filibusters, as events
proved, but good cause for Brock, who had been appointed janitor of
Canada and been given the keys of the country, to ponder deeply.
Canada's entire population was nearly 320,000--about the same as that of
Toronto to-day--that of the United States was 8,000,000! To defend her
broken frontier Canada had only 1,450 British soldiers and a militia--at that
moment--chiefly on paper. If the Indians in the West were to be impressed
with British supremacy--for they were making a stand against 2,000
American soldiers on the banks of the Wabash, in Ohio, where eighteen
years before they had been beaten by General Wayne at Miami--then
Amherstburg must be greatly strengthened and the Americans deterred
from attack. How was Brock to obtain troops, and how were they to be
equipped? The stores at Fort York were empty, provisions costly, and no
specie to be had. All the frontier posts needed heavier batteries. On Lake
Erie the fleet consisted of the _Queen Charlotte_ and the small schooner
_Hunter_. As to the militia, he had been advised that it would not be
prudent to arm more than 4,000 of the 11,000 in all Canada prepared to
bear arms.
To Brock's citation of thirty pressing wants Sir George Prevost wrote him,
"You must not be led into any measure bearing the character of _offence_,
even should war be declared." Prevost had a fluid backbone, while Brock's
was of finely tempered steel.
While affairs were in this precarious state His Excellency the
Lieutenant-Governor, Major-General Brock, opened the Legislature at York.
With what pride the news was received by the good people at St. Peter's
Port can be imagined. To think that this great man, gorgeous in a purple
Windsor uniform and slender court sword, with gleaming silk hose and hair
aglitter with silver powder, was none other than "Master Isaac," whom the
humblest Guernsey fisherman claimed as comrade, seemed past belief! To
think that this important gentleman, with frilled waistcoat and cuffs of
delicate lace--actually the King's Deputy--before whom, as "Your
Excellency," Indian and paleface, gentle and simple, bowed low, was the
small boy who used to play "uprooting the gorse" with the Guernsey
fisher-lads--was beyond comprehension. Probably the one least affected
by these honours was our hero himself. While it gratified his honest