It is difficult to imagine that the English General could in any way
have anticipated so easy a conquest. He had no reason to undervalue the
resolution of the enemy, and yet he appears to have been fully sanguine
of the success of his undertaking. Possibly he counted much on his own
decision and judgment, which, added to the confidence reposed in him by
all ranks and branches of the expedition, he might have felt fully
adequate to the overthrow of the mere difficulty arising from
inferiority of numbers. Whatever his motive, or however founded his
expectations of success, the service he performed was eminent, since he
not merely relieved Amherstburgh, the key of Upper Canada, from all
immediate danger, but at a single blow annihilated the American power
throughout that extensive frontier. That this bold measure, powerfully
contrasted as it was with his own previous vacillation of purpose, had
greatly tended to intimidate the American General, and to render him
distrustful of his own resources, there can be little doubt. The
destructive fire from the well-served breaching batteries, was moreover
instanced as an influencing cause of the capitulation; and there can be
no question, that a humane consideration for the defenceless town,
surrounded by hordes of Indians, had much to do with the decision of the
American General.
In justice to many officers of rank, and to the garrison generally, it
must be admitted that the decision of their leader, if credence might be
given to their looks and language, was anything but satisfactory to
them, and it must be confessed that it must have been mortifying in the
extreme, to have yielded without a blow a fortress so well provided with
the means of defence. What the result would have been had the British
columns mounted to the assault, it is impossible to say. That they would
have done their duty is beyond all question, but there is no reason to
believe the Americans, under a suitable commander, would have failed in
theirs. Superiority of numbers and position was on the one side; a
daring Chief, an ardent desire of distinction, and the impossibility of
retreat without humiliation, on the other.
In alluding thus to the capitulation of Detroit, we beg not to be
understood as either reflecting on the American character, or doubting
their courage. Question of personal bravery there was none, since no
appeal was made to arms; but the absence of sanguinary event left in
high relief the daring of the British commander, whose promptitude and
genius alone secured to him so important yet bloodless a conquest. Had
he evinced the slightest indecision, or lost a moment in preparing for
action, the American General would have had time to rally, and believing
him to be not more enterprising than his predecessors, would have
recovered from his panic and assumed an attitude at once, more worthy of
his trust, commensurate with his means of defence, and in keeping with
his former reputation. The quick apprehension of his opponent
immediately caught the weakness, while his ready action grappled
intuitively with the advantage it presented. The batteries, as our
narrative has shown, were opened without delay--the flotilla worked up
the river within sight of the fortress--and the troops and Indians
effected their landing in full view of the enemy. In fact, everything
was conducted in a manner to show a determination of the most active and
undoubted description. With what result has been seen.
It was in the evening of the day of surrender, that the little English
squadron, freighted with the prisoners taken in Detroit, dropped slowly
past Amherstburgh, into Lake Erie. By an article in the capitulation, it
had been stipulated, that the irregular troops should be suffered to
return to their homes, under the condition that they should not again
serve during the war, while those of the line were to be conducted to
the Lower Province, there to remain until duly exchanged. The appearance
as captives of those who had, only a few days before, been comfortably
established on the Sandwich shore, and had caused the country to feel
already some of the horrors of invasion--naturally enough drew forth
most of the inhabitants to witness the sight; and as the Sunday stroll
of the little population of Amherstburgh led in the direction of
Elliot's point, where the lake began, the banks were soon alive with
men, women and children, clad in holiday apparel, moving quickly to keep
up with the gliding vessels, and apparently, although not offensively
exulting in the triumph of that flag, beneath which the dense masses of
their enemies were now departing from their rescued territory.
Among those whom the passing barks had drawn in unusual numbers to the
river's side, were the daughters of Colonel D'Egville, whose almost
daily practice it was to take the air in that direction, where there was
so much of the sublime beauty of American scenery to arrest the
attention. Something more, however, than that vague curiosity which
actuated the mass, seemed to have drawn the sisters to the bank, and one
who had watched them narrowly must have observed, that their interest
was not divided among the many barks that glided onward to the lake, but
was almost exclusively attracted by one, which now lay to, with her
light bows breasting the current like a swan, and apparently waiting
either for a boat that had been dispatched to the shore, or with an
intention to send one. This vessel was filled in every part with troops
wearing the blue uniform of the American regular army, while those in
advance were freighted with the irregulars and backwoodsmen.
"Is not this, Julia, the vessel to which the Commodore promised to
promote Gerald, in reward of his gallant conduct last week?" asked the
timid Gertrude, with a sigh, as they stood stationary for a few moments,
watching the issue of the manoeuvre just alluded to.
"It is, Gertrude," was the answer of one whose fixed eye and abstracted
thought, betokened an interest in the same vessel, of a nature wholly
different from that of her questioner.
"How very odd, then, he does not come on shore to us. I am sure he must
see us, and it would not take him two minutes to let us know he is
unhurt, and to shake hands with us. It is very unkind of him I think."
Struck by the peculiar tone in which the last sentence had been uttered
Julia D'Egville turned her eyes full upon those of her sister. The
latter could not stand the inquiring gaze, but sought the ground, while
a conscious blush confirmed the suspicion.
"Dearest Gertrude," she said, as she drew the clasped arm of her sister
more fondly within her own; "I see how it is; but does he love you in
return. Has he ever told you so, or hinted it. Tell me, my dear girl."
"Never," faltered the sensitive Gertrude, and she hung her head, to
conceal the tear that trembled in her eye.
Her sister sighed deeply, and pressed the arm she held more closely
within her own. "My own own sister, for worlds I would not pain you; but
if you would be happy, you must not yield to this preference for our
cousin. Did you not remark how completely he seemed captivated by Miss
Montgomerie? Depend upon it, his affections are centered in her."
Gertrude made no reply, but tears trickled down her cheeks, as they both
slowly resumed their walk along the beach. Presently the splash of oars
was heard, and turning quickly to discover the cause, Julia saw a boat
leave the vessel, at which they had just been looking, and pull
immediately towards them. In the stern stood an officer in American
uniform, whom the eyes of love were not slow to distinguish, even in the
growing dusk of the evening.
"It is Ernest," exclaimed the excited girl, forgetting for a moment her
sister in herself. "I thought he would not have departed without seeking
to see me."
A few strokes of the oars were sufficient to bring the boat to the
shore. The American stepped out, and leaving the boat to follow the
direction of the vessel, now drifting fast with the current towards the
outlet, which the remainder of the flotilla had already passed, pursued
his course along the sands in earnest conversation with the sisters, or
rather with one of them, for poor Gertrude, after the first salutation,
seemed to have lost all inclination to speak.
"Fate, dearest Julia," said the officer despondingly, "has decreed our
interview earlier than I had expected. However, under all circumstances,
I may esteem myself happy to have seen you at all. I am indebted for
this favor to the officer commanding yonder vessel, in which our
regiment is embarked, for the satisfaction, melancholy as it is, of
being enabled to bid you a temporary farewell."
"Then are we both indebted to one of my own family for the happiness;
for that it is a happiness, Ernest, I can answer from the depression of
my spirits just now, when I feared you were about to depart without
seeing me at all. The officer in command of your vessel is, or ought to
be, a cousin of our own."
"Indeeed!--then is he doubly entitled to my regard. But, Julia, let the
brief time that is given us be devoted to the arrangement of plans for
the future. I will not for a moment doubt your faith, after what
occurred at our last interview; but shall I be certain of finding you
here, when later we return to wash away the stain this day's proceedings
have thrown upon our national honor. Forgive me, if I appear to mix up
political feelings, with private grief, but it cannot be denied, (and he
smiled faintly through the mortification evidently called up by the
recollection), that to have one's honor attainted, and to lose one's
mistress in the same day, are heavier taxes on human patience, than it
can be expected a soldier should quietly bear."
"And when I am yours at a later period, I suppose you will expect me to
be as interested in the national honor, as you are," replied Julia,
anxious to rally him on a subject she felt, could not but be painful to
a man of high feelings, as she fully believed the Colonel to be. "How
are we to reconcile such clashing interests? How am I so far to overcome
my natural love for the country which gave me birth, so to rejoice in
its subjugation by yours; and yet, that seems to be the eventual object
at which you hint. Your plan, if I understand right, is to return here
with an overwhelming army; overrun the province, and make me your
property by right of conquest, while all connected with me, by blood, or
friendship, are to be borne into captivity. If we marry, sir, we must
draw lots which of us shall adopt a new country."
"Nay, dearest Julia, this pleasantry is unseasonable. I certainly do
intend, provided I am exchanged in time to return here with the army,
which I doubt not will be instantly dispatched to restore our blighted
fame, and then I shall claim you as my own. Will you then hesitate to
become mine? Even as the daughter forsakes the home of her father
without regret, to pass her days with him who is to her father, mother,
all the charities of life, in short--so should she forsake her native
land adopting in preference that to which her husband is attached by
every tie of honor, and of duty. However, let us hope that ere long, the
folly of this war will be seen, and that the result of such perception,
will be a peace founded on such permanent bases, that each shall be
bound, by an equal tie of regard, to the home of the other."
"Let us hope so," eagerly replied Julia. "But what has become of our
friend, Miss Montgomerie, in all the confusion of this day. Or am I
right in supposing that she and her uncle are of the number of those
embarked in my cousin's vessel?"
The name of the interesting American, coupled as it was, with that of
one infinitely more dear to her, caused Gertrude for the first time, to
look up in the face of the officer, in expectation of his reply. She was
struck by the sudden paleness that came over his features again, as on
the former occasion, when allusion was made to her at his recent visit
to Amherstburgh. He saw that his emotion was remarked, and sought to
hide it under an appearance of unconcern, as he replied:
"Neither Miss Montgomerie nor her uncle are embarked. The latter, I
regret to say, has been one of the few victims who have fallen."
"What! dead--that excellent kind old man--dead," demanded the sisters
nearly in the same breath?
"No; not dead--but I fear with little hope of life. He was desperately
wounded soon after daybreak this morning, and when I saw him half an
hour afterwards, he had been given over by the surgeons."
"Poor Major Montgomerie," sighed Gertrude; "I felt when he was here the
other day, that I could have loved him almost as my own father. How
broken-hearted his niece must be at his loss!"
A sneer of bitterness passed over the fine features of the American as
he replied with emphasis:
"Nay, dear Gertrude, your sympathies are but ill bestowed. Miss
Montgomerie's heart will scarcely sustain the injury you seem to
apprehend."
"What mean you, Ernest?" demanded Julia, with eagerness. "How is it that
you judge thus harshly of her character. How, in short, do you pretend
to enter into her most secret feelings, and yet deny all but a general
knowledge of her? What can you possibly know of her heart?"
"I merely draw my inferences from surmise," replied the Colonel, after a
few moments of pause. "The fact is, I have the vanity to imagine myself
a correct reader of character, and my reading of Miss Montgomerie's has
not been the happiest."
Julia's look betrayed incredulity. "There is evidently some mystery in
all this," she rejoined; "but I will not seek to discover more than you
choose at present to impart. Later I may hope to possess more of your
confidence. One question more, however, and I have done. Have you seen
her since your return to Detroit, and did she give you my letter?"
The Colonel made no answer, but produced from his pocket a note, which
Julia at once recognised as her own.
"Then," said Gertrude, "there was not so much danger after all, in
intrusting it. You seemed to be in a sad way, when you first heard that
it had been given to her."
"I would have pledged myself for its safe deliverance," added her
sister; "for the promise was too solemnly given to be broken."
"And solemnly has it been kept," gravely returned the American. "But
hark! already are they hailing the boat, and we must part."
The time occupied in conversation had brought them down to the extreme
point where the river terminated and the lake commenced. Beyond this lay
a sand bar, which it was necessary to clear before the increasing dusk
of the evening rendered it hazardous. All the other vessels had already
passed it, and were spreading their white sails before the breeze, which
here, unbroken by the island, impelled them rapidly onward. A few
strokes of the oar, and the boat once more touched the beach. Low and
fervent adieus were exchanged, and the American, resuming his station in
the stern, was soon seen to ascend the deck he had so recently quitted.
For a short time the sisters continued to watch the movements of the
vessel, as she in turn having passed, spread all her canvass to the
wind, until the fast fading twilight warning them to depart, they
retraced their steps along the sands to the town. Both were silent and
pensive; and while all around them found subject for rejoicing in the
public events of the day, they retired at an early hour, to indulge at
leisure in the several painful retrospections which related more
particularly to themselves.