QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.
About seven miles from the mouth of the Niagara River, a bold
escarpment of rock, an old lake margin, runs across the country
from east to west, at a height of about three hundred feet above
the level of Lake Ontario. Through this the river, in the course
of ages, has worn a deep and gloomy gorge. At the foot of the
cliff and on its lower slopes, nestled on the western side the
hamlet of Queenston and on the eastern the American village of
Lewiston. On the Canadian side, where the ascent of the hill was
more abrupt, it was overcome by a road that by a series of sharp
zigzags gained the tableland at the top. Halfway up the height was
a battery mounting an 18-pound gun, and manned by twelve men, and
on the bank of the river, some distance below the village, was
another mounting a 24-pound carronade. On either side of the rocky
pass from which the river flows, the spiry spruces and cedars with
twisted roots grapple with the rocks and cling to the steep
slopes.
The river emerges from the narrow gorge, a dark and tortured
stream. For seven miles since its plunge over the great cataract,
it has been convulsed by raging rapids and rugged rocks and by a
seething whirlpool. As it here glides out into a wider channel, it
bears the evidences of its tumultuous course in the resistless
sweep of its waters and the dangerous eddies and "boilers" by
which its dark surface is disturbed. At this point is a favourite
fishing-ground. The schools of herring attempting to ascend the
river are here unable to overcome the swiftness of the current and
are caught in large quantities by the rude seines and nets of the
neighbouring fishermen, a waggon-load sometimes being caught in a
few hours. Notwithstanding the invasion of Canada by Hull and the
capture of Detroit by Brock, a sort of armed truce was observed
along the Niagara frontier; and Brock had orders from Sir George
Provost, Commander-in-Chief and Governor-General, to stand
strictly on the defensive. As the schools of fish at this season
of the year were running finely, the fishermen of the villages on
each side of the river were eagerly engaged in securing their
finny harvest, on which much of their winter food supply depended.
As this was a mutual necessity, each party, by a tacit consent,
was allowed to ply this peaceful avocation, for the most part,
undisturbed by hostile demonstrations of the other.
For the defence of the whole frontier of thirty-four miles from
Fort Erie to Fort George, Brock had only some fifteen hundred men,
of whom at least one-half were militiamen and Indians. On the
American side of the river, a force of over six thousand regulars
and militia were assembled for the invasion of Canada. These were
distributed along the river from Fort Niagara to Buffalo. Brock
was compelled, therefore, still further to weaken his already
scanty force by being on the alert at all points, as he knew not
at which one the attack would be made. Consequently there were
only some three hundred men, mostly militia, quartered at
Queenston at the time of which we write. They were billeted at the
inn and houses of the village and in the neighbouring farmhouses
and barns.
The morning of the thirteenth of October, a day ever memorable in
the annals of Canada, broke cold and stormy. Low hung clouds
mantled the sky and made the late dawn later still, and cast still
darker shadows on the sombre clumps of spruce and pines that
clothed the sides of the gorge, and on the sullen water that
flowed between. A couple of fishermen of the neighbourhood who
were serving in the militia had been permitted by the officer in
command to attend to their seines, with the injunction to keep a
sharp look-out at the same time, and to be ready at an instant's
summons to join the ranks. As the schools of herring were in full
run, they had remained all night in the little bothie or hut, made
of spruce boughs, down at the water-side, that they might at the
earliest dawn draw their seine and set it again unmolested by the
stray shots from the opposite side, which, notwithstanding the
truce, had of late occasionally been fired. At the same season of
the year, the same operation can still be witnessed at the same
place--the narrow ledge beneath the cliff, along the river-bank,
especially near the abutment of the broken Suspension Bridge.
The elder of the two men was a sturdy Welshman--Jonas Evans by
name--a Methodist of the Lady Huntingdon connexion. The other, Jim
Larkins, was Canadian born, the son of a neighbouring farmer.
About four o'clock in the morning they emerged from their spruce
booth and began hauling with their rude windlass upon the seine,
heavily laden with fish.
"Hark!" exclaimed Jonas to his companion, "what noise is that? I
thought I heard the splash of oars."
"It is only the wash of the waves upon the shore or the sough of
the wind among the pines. You're likely to hear nothing else this
time o' day, or o' night rather."
"There it is again," said the old man, peering into the darkness,
"And I'm sure I heard the sound o' voices on the river. See
there!" he exclaimed as a long dark object was descried amid the
gloom. "There is a boat, and there behind it is another; and I
doubt not there are still others behind. Run, Jim, call out the
guard. The Lord hath placed us here to confound the devices of the
enemy."
Snatching from the booth his trusty Brown Bess musket, without
waiting to challenge, for he well knew that this was the vanguard
of the threatened invasion, he fired at the boat, more for the
purpose of giving the alarm than in the expectation of inflicting
any damage on the moving object in the uncertain light.
The sound of the musket shot echoed and re-echoed between the
rocky cliffs, and repeated in loud reverberations its thrilling
sound of warning.
"Curse him! we are discovered," exclaimed the steersman of the
foremost boat, with a brutal oath. "Spring to your oars, lads! We
must gain a footing before the guard turns out or it's all up with
us. Pull for your lives!"
No longer rowing cautiously with muffled oars, but with loud
shouts and fairly churning the surface of the water into foam,
they made the boat--a large flat-bottomed barge--bound through the
waves. Another and another emerged rapidly from the darkness, and
their prows successively grated upon the shingle as they were
forced upon the beach. The invading troops leaped lightly out with
a clash of arms, and at the quick, sharp word of command, formed
upon the beach.
Meanwhile, on the cliff above, the sharp challenge and reply of
the guard, the shrill _reveille_ of the bugle, and the quick
throbbing of the drums calling to arms is heard. The men turn out
with alacrity, and are soon seen, in the grey dawn, running from
their several billets to headquarters, buckling their belts and
adjusting their accoutrements as they run. Soon is heard the
measured tramp of armed men forming in companies to attack the
enemy. Sixty men of the 49th Grenadiers, under the command of
Captain Dennis, and Captain Halt's company of militia advance with
a light 3-pounder gun against the first division of the enemy,
under Colonel Van Renssclaer, who has formed his men on the beach
and is waiting the arrival of the next boats. These are seen
rapidly approaching, but to get them safely across the river is a
work of great difficulty and danger. The current is swift, and the
swirling eddies are strong and constantly changing their position.
On leaving the American shore, they were obliged to pull up stream
as far as possible. But when caught by the resistless sweep of the
current, they were borne rapidly down, their track being an acute
diagonal across the stream. To reach the only available landing-
place, they must again row up stream in the slack water on the
Canadian side, their whole course being thus like the outline of
the letter 'N'. [Footnote: The present writer has a vivid
remembrance of a night-passage of the river under circumstances of
some peril. It was in a small flat-bottomed scow. Shortly after
leaving the American shore, a tremendous storm of thunder,
lightning, rain, and hail burst over the river. The waves, crested
with snowy foam which gleamed ghastly in the dim light of our
lantern, threatened to engulf our frail bark. The boatman strained
every nerve and muscle, but was borne a mile down the river before
he made the land. That distance he had to retrace along the
rugged, boulder-strewn, and log-encumbered shore. We reached the
landing in a still more demoralized condition than the American
invaders, but met a warmly hospitable, not hostile, reception.]
Of the thirteen boats that left the American shore, three were
driven back by the British fire--the little three-pounder and the
two batteries doing good service as their hissing shots fell in
disagreeably close proximity to the boats, sometimes splashing
them with spray, and once ricocheting right over one of them.
The first detachment of invaders were driven with some loss behind
a steep bank close to the water's edge, but they were soon
reinforced by fresh arrivals, and, being now in overwhelming
strength, steadily fought their way up the bank.
Meanwhile, where was Brock? Such, we venture to think, was the
most eager thought of every mind on either side. He was speeding
as fast as his good steed could carry him to his glorious fate.
The previous night, at head-quarters at Fort George, he had called
his staff together and, in anticipation of the invasion, had given
to each officer his instructions. In the morning, agreeably to his
custom, he rose before day. While dressing, the sound of the
distant cannonade caught his attentive ear. He speedily roused his
aides-de-camp, Major Glegg and Colonel Macdonel, and called for
his favourite horse, Alfred, the gift of his friend, Sir James
Craig. His first impression was that the distant firing was but a
feint to draw the garrison from Fort George. The real point of
attack he anticipated would be Niagara, and he suspected an
American force to be concealed in boats around the point on which
Fort Niagara stood, ready to cross over as soon as the coast was
clear. He determined, therefore, to ascertain personally the
nature of the attack before withdrawing the garrison.
With his two aides, he galloped eagerly to the scene of the
action. As he approached Queenston Heights, the whole slope of the
hill was swept by a heavy artillery and musketry fire from the
American shore. Nevertheless, with his aides, he rode at full
speed up to the 18-pounder battery, midway to the summit.
Dismounting, he surveyed the disposition of the opposed forces and
personally directed the fire of the gun. At this moment firing was
heard on the crest of the hill commanding the battery. A
detachment of American troops under Captain (afterwards General)
Wool had climbed like catamounts the steep cliff by an unguarded
fisherman's path. Sir Isaac Brock and his aides had not even time
to remount, but were compelled to retire with the twelve gunners
who manned the battery. This was promptly occupied by the
Americans, who raised the stars and stripes. Brock, having first
despatched a messenger to order up reinforcements from Fort George
and to command the bombardment of Fort Niagara, [Footnote: This
was done with such vigour that its fire was silenced and its
garrison compelled for the time to abandon it.] determined to
recapture the battery. Placing himself at the head of a company of
the Forty-ninth he charged up the hill under a heavy fire. The
enemy gave way, and Brock, by the tones of his voice and the
reckless exposure of his person, inspirited the pursuit of his
followers. His tall figure--he was six feet two inches in height,
--his conspicuous valour, and his general's epaulettes and cockade
attracted the fire of the American sharpshooters, and he fell,
pierced through the breast by a mortal bullet. As he fell upon his
face, a devoted follower rushed to his assistance. "Don't mind
me," he said. "Push on the York volunteers," and with his ebbing
life sending a love-message to his sister in the far-off Isle of
Guernsey, the brave soul passed away.