THE FALL OF FORT GEORGE.
But short respite was granted before the fall of the blow which,
for a time, annihilated British authority on the frontier. On the
third day after the reception of the evil tidings of the capture
of York, Chauncey's fleet was seen in the offing; but for six days
adverse winds prevented it from landing the American troops
beneath the protection of the guns of Fort Niagara. Day after day
they stood off and on, but were unable to make the land. "The
stars in their courses fought against Sisera," said Jonas Evans,
as he watched the baffled fleet, "and the Lord, with the breath of
His mouth, fighteth for us."
At length, having landed General Dearborn and his troops, Chauncey
conveyed his wounded to Sackett's Harbour, the great American
naval depot on Lake Ontario, and hastened back with a strong body
of re-enforcements. The gallant Colonel Vincent, commandant at
Fort George, bated not a jot of heart or hope,--although he was
able to muster only some 1,400 troops. Yet these, with spade and
mattock, toiled day after day to strengthen its ramparts and
ravelins, and to throw up new earthworks and batteries. One fatal
want, however, was felt. The stock of ammunition was low, and as
Chauncey, with his fleet, had the mastery of the lake, it could
not be replenished from the ample supply at Fort Henry, at
Kingston.
At length the fateful day arrived. On the twenty-sixth of May, at
early dawn, Chauncey's ships, fifteen in number, were drawn up in
crescent form off the devoted town, their snowy sails gleaming in
the morning sun. On the opposite sides of the river the grim forts
frowned defiance at each other, and guarded, like stern warders,
the channel between them. The morning _reveille_ seemed the
shrill challenge to mortal combat. Sullen and silent, like
couchant lions, through the black embrasures the grim cannon
watched the opposite shores; and at length, from the feverish lips
of the guns of the American fort, as if they could no longer hold
their breath, leap forth, in breath of flame and thunder roar, the
fell death-bolts of war. The fierce shells scream through the air
and explode within the quadrangle of Fort George, scattering
destruction and havoc, or, perchance, bury themselves harmlessly
in the earthen ramparts. The ships take up their part in the
dreadful chorus. From their black sides flash forth the tongues of
flame and wreaths of smoke, and soon they get the range with
deadly precision. The British guns promptly reply. The gunners
stand to their pieces, though an iron hail is crashing all around
them. Now one and another is struck down by a splinter or fragment
of shell, and, while another steps into his place, is borne off to
the bomb-proof casemates, where the surgeon plies his ghastly but
beneficent calling.
For hours the deadly cannonade continues, but amid it all, the
dead General, buried in a disused bastion, sleeps calmly on:
"He has fought his last fight, he has waged his last battle, No
sound shall awake him to glory again."
Jonas Evans, who had been an old artilleryman, takes the place of
a wounded gunner, lifts the big sixty-eight pound balls, rams them
home, and handles the linstock as coolly as if on parade. "Bless
the Lord!" he said to a comrade while the piece was being pointed,
"I am ready to live or die; it's no odds to me. For me to live is
Christ, to die is gain. Sudden death would be sudden glory.
Hallelujah! I believe I am doing my duty to my country, to God and
man, and my soul is as happy as it can be this side heaven."
Strange words for such a scene of blood! Strange work for a
Christian man to do! It seems the work of demons rather than of
men, and yet godly men have, with an approving conscience, wielded
the weapons of carnal warfare. But in this much at least all will
agree: An unjust war is the greatest of all crimes, and even a
just war is the greatest of all calamities. And all will join in
the prayer, Give peace in our time, O Lord, and hasten the day
when the nations shall learn war no more!
Neville Trueman, who had a pass from Colonel Vincent to visit the
Methodist troops in the fort, felt himself summoned thither, as to
a post of duty, at the first sounds of the cannonade. He was soon
busily engaged, skilfully helping the surgeon and ministering
alike to the bodies and the souls of the wounded soldiers. He also
found time to visit the ramparts and speak words of cheer and
encouragement to the members of his spiritual flock. Although shot
and shell screamed through the air, and fragments and splinters
were flying in dangerous proximity, he felt himself sustained by
the grace of God. Amid these dreadful scenes he knew no fear, and
his calm serenity inspired confidence courage and in others.
The bombardment lasted a large part of the day. Fort George was
severely damaged. Several of its guns were dismounted, and the
whole place rendered almost untenable.
The night was one of much anxiety. The force of the enemy was
overwhelming. The fate of the fortress seemed certain; but
Vincent, with gallant British pluck, resolved to hold it to the
last. The wearied troops snatched what refreshment and repose they
could amid the confusion and discomfort and danger by which they
were surrounded. At intervals during the night the American fort
kept up a teasing fire, more for the purpose of causing annoyance
and preventing rest than with the object of doing any serious
damage. As a mere pyrotechnic spectacle it was certainly a grand
sight to watch the graceful curves of the live shells through the
air--a parabola of vivid brightness against the black sky, as the
burning fuse, fanned by its rapid motion, glowed like a shooting-
star. The loud detonation, and explosion of fiery fragments that
followed, however, was rather discomposing to the nerves, and
unfavourable for restful slumber to the weary warriors.
Another cruel refinement of war was still more disconcerting. In
order, if possible, to ignite the barracks, the gunners of Fort
Niagara kept firing at intervals red-hot cannon balls. A vigilant
look-out for these had to be kept, and a fire brigade was
specially organized to drown out any incipient conflagration that
might occur.
A similar compliment was paid by the artillerists of Fort George.
No little skill was required in handling these heavy red-hot
projectiles. In order to prevent a premature explosion of the
charge, a wet wad was interposed between the powder and the red-
hot ball. In the walls of Fort Mississauga, at Niagara, may still
be seen the fire-places for heating the shot for the purpose here
described.
But, notwithstanding the tumult, the roar of the cannon near at
hand, the explosion of shells, and the thud of the balls striking
the casemates, or burying themselves in the earthen ramparts, the
weary garrison snatched what repose was possible; for the morrow,
it was felt, would tax their energies to the utmost.
The morning of May 27th dawned as bright and beautiful as in
Eden's sinless garden--as fair as though such a deadly evil as war
were unknown in the world. The American shipping stood in closer
to the shore. The bombardment was renewed with intenser fury. It
was evident that an attempt was about to be made to laud a hostile
force on Canadian ground. Every available man, except those
required to work the guns of Fort George, and a guard over the
stores, as hurried down to the beach to prevent, if possible, the
landing. Boat after boat, filled with armed men, their bayonets
gleaming in the morning sunshine, left the ships, and, under cover
of a tremendous fire from the American fort and fleet, gained the
shore. First Colonel Scott, with eight hundred riflemen, effected
a landing. They were promptly met by a body of British regulars
and militia, and compelled to take refuge under cover of the steep
bank which lined the beach to the north of the town. From this
position they kept up a galling fire on the British troops in the
open field. The broadsides of the fleet also swept the plain, and
wrought great havoc among the brave militia defending their native
soil. To escape the deadly sweep of the cannon they were obliged
to prostrate themselves in the slight depressions in the plain.
Notwithstanding the inequality of numbers, the main body of the
enemy were three times repulsed before they could gain a foothold
on the beach.
At length, after three hours desperate struggle, a hostile force
of six thousand men stood upon the plain. The conflict then was
brief but strenuous. Many were the incidents of personal heroism
that relieved, as by a gleam of light, the darkness of the
tragedy. Jonas Evans was in the foremost files, and, as they lay
upon the ground, his comrade on either side was killed by round
shot from the ships, but, as if he bore a charmed life, he escaped
unhurt. Loker and McKay, while bearing off a wounded militia-man,
were captured, as were many others. At length the bugles sounded a
retreat. Slowly and reluctantly the British troops fell back
through the town. A strong rear-guard halted in the streets,
seeking the shelter of the houses, and stubbornly holding the foe
at bay while Vincent made his preparations for abandoning Fort
George. All that valour and fidelity could do to hold that
important post had been done. But how were a few hundred weary and
defeated men to withstand a victorious army of six-fold greater
strength? [Footnote: The details of the account above given were
narrated to the author by the venerable Father Brady, for many
years class-leader of the Methodist Church at Niagara, who was an
actor in the events described.]
The guns of the fort were spiked and overthrown, and baggage,
ammunition, and moveable stores were hastily loaded on teams
volunteered for the service, to accompany the retreat of the army.
With a bitter pang, Vincent ordered the destruction of the fort
which he had so gallantly defended. When the last man had retired,
with his own hand he fired the train which caused the explosion of
the powder magazine. When the victorious army marched in, they
found only the breached and blackened walls, the yawning gates,
and dismantled ramparts of the fort. From the shattered flagstaff,
where it still waved defiantly, though rent and seared by shot and
shell, the brave red-cross flag was hauled down and replaced by
the gaily fluttering stars and stripes.
Many a time has the present writer wandered over the crumbling and
grass-grown ramparts of the ruined fort, where the peaceful sheep
crop the herbage and the little children play. Some of the old
casemates and thick-walled magazines still remain, and are
occupied by the families of a few old pensioners. In these low-
vaulted chambers, with their deep and narrow embrasures, once the
scene of the rude alarum of war, often has he held a quiet
religious service with the lowly and unlettered inmates, who knew
little of the thrilling history of their strange abode.
Often at the pensive sunset hour, reclining in a crumbling
bastion, has he tried to rehabilitate the past, and to summon from
their lonely and forgotten graves upon the neighbouring
battlefield, or in quiet church-yards, it may be, far beyond the
sea, the groups of war-scarred veterans who once peopled the now
desolate fort.
Again is heard, in fancy, the quick challenge and reply, the
bugle-call, the roll of drums, the sharp rattle of musketry, the
deep and deadly thunder of the cannonade. How false and fading is
felt to be the glory of arms, and how abiding victories of peace,
more glorious than those of war!
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
But hark! a loud report awakes the dreamer from his reverie. It is
the sunset gun from old Fort Niagara; and as stern reality becomes
again a presence, the gazer's glance rests on the peaceful beauty
of the broad blue Lake Ontario, on which, at this quiet hour, so
many eyes, long turned to dust, have rested in the years forever
flown.