It was July before Colonel Battersby's column, after a long march from
Montreal, reached Kingston and joined the forces of General Drummond,
and none too soon, for word had been forwarded of the disastrous
invasion of the Niagara frontier under Brigadier-Generals Scott and
Ripley. Fort Erie had been taken, and Commander-in-Chief Brown, with a
heavy force, had advanced against Major-General Riall and defeated the
British forces at Chippewa. The country was ravaged, St. Davids burned,
Niagara threatened.
With all possible speed General Drummond pressed forward his troops, but
it was the 25th of the month before Niagara was reached and Riall
reinforced. Part of Colonel Battersby's command was left with the
veterans stationed at Queenston, to oppose the landing of American
troops there; while the balance, including Battersby himself, as well as
Captain Morris and his company, continued with the main force in the
advance toward Lundy's Lane.
At six o'clock of that memorable night, when Drummond's forces met
Riall's at the junction of Queenston Road and Lundy's Lane, they were
retreating before the superior force of the enemy. Countermanding the
retreat, the Generals at once placed their guns in strong position on
the hill. Eight hundred soldiers, however, added to the British troops
still came short of balancing the forces. Nevertheless, the famous
battle of Lundy's Lane commenced, and before night it was fiercely
raging. As it progressed, reinforcements were received on both sides.
This only added fuel to the flame, and it was not until midnight that
the battle ceased.
Among orchards laden with fruit on hillside and summit, in little copses
of woodland, in open plain, throughout that long twilight, until the
pale moon sank in the west:
"Roar of baleful battle rose
And brethren of a common tongue
To mortal strife like tigers sprung."
What gave enthusiasm to Canadians and British in the contest was that
they were fighting for home and country. The attitude of defender and
invader can never be the same. The struggle of heart and soul against
mere mentality cannot be equal. The one has virile force in every fibre
of its being, ready to sacrifice life and limb to principle; the other
mere elusive energy, begotten of baser metal.
[Illustration: "That'll be our new home, sweetheart"
_Page 210_]
Still, the American infantry fought with gallant determination. With
unfailing energy they made charge after charge to capture the British
guns. General Riall, now second in command, was wounded and captured,
and at nine o'clock it seemed as though the Americans would win. Then
reinforcements poured in on either side. Though tired from long marches
on that hot summer day, they at once rallied to the support of their
respective commanders, and lighted only by the faint moonlight and the
flash from the rifles, the struggle continued with redoubled fury.
The English gunners stood manfully at their posts and swept with deadly
fire the lines of Brown's battalions. The carnage was terrific. White
men of the same blood, the same language, the same religion, nay, in the
highest ethics of the same race, shot each other down by hundreds, as if
life were of no moment, bayonetting each other to death in the light of
the silvery moon.
At last, spurred on by the determination to carry the battery at any
cost, Colonel Miller, of the Twenty-first, made an impetuous rush, and
for a time captured the British guns.
Now began the wildest scene of all--a hand-to-hand and
bayonet-to-bayonet struggle for mastery. General Drummond's men rallied
on every side, determined to fight to the bitter end, and hour after
hour the slaughter continued. Everywhere the fight went on. The shouts
of command, the thunder of artillery, the continual flashing of powder,
the clashing of steel, mingled with the roar of Niagara and the groans
of the dying, made it seem as though the demons of hell had been let
loose to ravage the earth.
But six hours of mortal conflict were enough. Seventeen hundred men,
Britons and Americans, lay side by side, dead or wounded, on that field
of battle. The position of the British was too strong to be taken and
held, and the invaders, realizing the futility of further effort,
withdrew from the field, returning to Fort Erie, which they had already
captured, and where they more adequately intrenched their position.
Left to themselves, the British were not long in making a change. Lights
were lit, and at once men were dispatched to examine the field and
search for missing comrades.
Colonel Battersby, although he had led his men in the thickest of the
fight, had come off unscathed, but he knew that some of his officers had
been slain or wounded. To his horror, Captain Morris, the man of his own
selection, was missing. Eager to know the truth, accompanied by
orderlies, he went carefully over the field. Headless trunks,
disembowelled bodies, the dead, the dying, the wounded, were everywhere.
Agonizing groans came from the fallen, both English and Americans, while
side by side with them, stoic Indians with impassive faces did not utter
a sound.
As they passed on, limbs were straightened, a comfortable position given
or a wound staunched, while now and then a few drops from a pocket
flask were poured between the lips of a life fast ebbing away.
"Colonel, here's a captain's epaulets," ejaculated one of his men at
last. A light was thrown upon a body whose face was hidden in the moss
beneath an oak shrub. The man, though unconscious, still breathed, as he
lay in a pool of blood. Wiping his face, they gently turned it upwards.
"My God! It is Captain Morris," exclaimed the Colonel.
Tenderly they placed him in an easier position. Blood from the scalp and
side and leg were freely flowing.
"Tell one of the surgeons to come at once," was the Colonel's order,
while he knelt to loosen his clothing.
In a few minutes the doctor came and made an examination.
"Suffering from concussion, as well as loss of blood," were his words.
"Let us lay him on a stretcher and carry him to quarters."
In a few minutes they reached a vacant house on the lower side of the
hill, which they purposed using as a temporary hospital.
"Who is it?" enquired General Drummond, as they approached.
"Captain Morris, sir."
"Ah, another brave man! One of our best officers! How many we have lost
in this terrible fight! Will he live, doctor?"
"I hope so. He is not conscious, but he opened his eyes just now."
"Thank God! You must do your best for him."
"I will, sir."
They placed him on a settee on one side of the room, and the doctor
dressed his wounds.
"I saw him fall," came in a low tone from a man in the opposite corner,
whose foot had been shot off. He had fainted from loss of blood and the
leg had been bound up until it could be properly dressed. "I belong to
his company. Twice we were driven back--half our men had fallen--but he
drew his sword and rushed on again, calling us to follow him--then a
Yankee officer struck at him, so he knocked his sword back and ran him
through--but a couple of sogers came at the Captain with their
bayonets--that's the last I saw, for I got dizzy and fell--I didn't
think I was hurt."
"You've said enough," said the doctor sharply. "We don't want you to
faint again."
"All right, sir."
There was a deep flesh wound in Captain Morris' thigh and a bayonet
thrust in his body, while the top of his scalp had been torn to the
skull by a bullet.
"Pretty badly knocked out," said the doctor, "but not hopeless. His
pupils are still sensitive."
The General expressed satisfaction as with Battersby he left the house.
Several other shanties near by were being utilized for the wounded.
"I suppose the owners all fled on the approach of battle," said the
General to Colonel Scott, who had charge of the relief department.
"Yes," was the answer. "This battle has been impending for days, and
orders were issued to the people to escape to the back districts without
delay."
"They may as well stay away now," said Drummond. "There are hundreds of
wounded, and our first care must be for them. We may have beaten the
enemy, but it has been at terrible cost."
"Your arrival, General, was a God-send. If your men had not come I don't
know where we would have been."
"Your own vanguard helped to save us though. But the horror of it all--a
thousand men have bit the dust."
"If we have fights like this, thousands more may do it yet before we are
through."
"True, but it is a fight to the finish. We must hold our own. Never
relinquish an inch."
For more than an hour Captain Morris remained unconscious. His continued
insensibility caused much concern, and Sergeant Dennis, his faithful
subaltern, was placed beside him to watch.
After a while, he opened his eyes and looked vacantly around him through
the dim light. Gradually he took in the situation.
"Ah!" he exclaimed at last, fixing his eyes on Dennis and looking at
his bandages. "I got hurt--did I?"
"Yes, Captain, a trifle," was the answer.
"And the battle--is it over?"
"Yes, Captain; keep still."
"Thank heaven!"
For a time there was a pause, and the Sergeant put some whiskey and
water to his lips.
"I must be badly knocked out," he ventured again, after a while.
"Not so bad as some," was the answer.
"Bad enough."
"I will call the doctor or Colonel Battersby," said the sergeant. "I had
orders to report."
"Wait a minute, Sergeant, it can't be three yet."
"It is, nearly."
"There is something you can do for me."
"I will do anything in the world for you, Captain."
"Thanks--you will be with me all night, won't you?"
"Yes, till daylight."
"Well, I'll tell you later--after the doctor comes."
"He's here now."
So the communication was delayed.