While the success of the British and American arms had
been alternating (with eventual triumph to the latter)
in the manner we have shown during the campaign of 1813,
on the Western District of Upper Canada, some highly
important operations had taken place in the army of the
centre. Of these our space will admit but of a detail of
one, and we thus travel out of the scene to which we have
hitherto confined our labors, not only because it was
the most dashing affair that occurred during the war,
but because it offers a striking parallel to the enterprise
and daring which destroyed the American power, at the
outset of hostilities, and was productive of similar
results.
Towards the close of May 1813, the Americans, after having
hotly bombarded Fort George on the Niagara frontier, for
two successive days, crossed the river and succeeded in
establishing themselves in that post which was evacuated
as untenable. The British loss on this occasion was
considerable, and General Vincent, who commanded the army
of the centre, retreated with much precipitation towards
Burlington Heights, withdrawing at the same time the
garrison from Fort Erie.
Emboldened by the absence of serious opposition, the
American Generals (Winder and Chandler) pushed forward
a force, exceeding three thousand men, as far as Stoney
Creek, close to the position then occupied by the little
British army, not more than one fifth of this number.
Here they halted for the night, evidently to refresh
their troops for the attack, which was meditated for the
following morning.
The result of such attack, with so overwhelming a force,
upon a small body of men dispirited, by recent discomfiture,
and destitute of supplies or reserves, could scarcely
have been doubtful. Fortunately however for the honor of
the British arms, Colonel Harvey, to whose conduct on
this occasion allusion has been incidentally made in an
early chapter of the present volume, had recently joined
the centre Division from Lower Canada, and to his quick
and comprehensive mind it immediately suggested itself,
that if the attack of the American army should be awaited,
the result, under the circumstances already alluded to,
and in the position occupied by the British force (literally
a Cul-de-Sac) must inevitably be attended by their utter
discomfiture, if not annihilation. On the contrary, he
felt persuaded that, even with the small force at the
disposal of the British General, there was every probability
that a bold and well concerted night attack would have
the effect of restoring to the assailants that confidence
in themselves, which had been weakened by a series of
reverses, while it must necessarily, and in the same
proportion, carry dismay into the ranks of the hitherto
victorious enemy.
It was, we believe--indeed we have reason to know--a
favorite military maxim with Colonel Harvey, and invariably
acted up to whenever opportunity was afforded for its
application, that defensive warfare, when the invading
foe is greatly superior in number, is best carried on by
a succession of bold and active offensive operations.
The result of this theory was, in the instance under
question, an offer to General Vincent to head a night
attack and penetrate into the very heart of the enemy's
encampment, as an only means of extricating the army from
its perilous position, and restoring (if successful) to
the victors that moral confidence which was necessary to
the honor of the army, and the preservation of the country.
Fortunately, we repeat, for the glory of the British
arms, Colonel Harvey's proposal was accepted, although
not without much doubt and indecision on the subject,
and during the night of the 5th June the small band of
heroes, destined to achieve so glorious a result, were
silently get under arms for the disproportionate encounter.
At the head of seven hundred and twenty bayonets Colonel
Harvey dashed in upon his slumbering and unsuspecting
enemy, amounting to more than quadruple his own force,
and well provided with field artillery. So bold and
unexpected was the attack, that the enemy fled, with the
utmost precipitation, to a position called the forty mile
creek, a distance of ten miles, leaving their Generals
and a vast number of prisoners and military stores in
the hands of the victors. Here they fell in with a
reinforcement under General Lewis. So opportune however
had been the blow struck by Colonel Harvey, and such the
panic created by it in the American ranks, that even with
this additional force, they, on the sudden appearance of
the British fleet, with a small body of troops on board,
after sustaining a short cannonade, continued their
retreat to Fort George, leaving their tents standing,
nor halting until they had gained their place of
destination.
Thus, by this judicious and by far the most brilliant
achievement of the war, was the centre District freed
from the triumphant presence of the enemy, as the western
had been, in the preceding year, by the bold and well
timed movement of General Brock upon Detroit, with an
equally inferior force.
The history of the war furnishes no similar enterprizes.
Both were the results of a bold conception, and prompt
and successful execution. Of the two, perhaps Stoney
Creek was the most dashing and decided, since there the
adverse armies actually came into collision.
In October of the same year, [Footnote: The anachronism
referred to in the Preface. The events here described,
occurred in 1812, and not in 1813.] a numerous body of
Americans, principally troops of the line, had been
collected under the orders of General Van Ransaellar,
and advantage was taken of a dark night in October to
push them across the river, with a view to the occupation
of the commanding heights above the village of Queenston.
In this, favored by circumstances, the enemy were eminently
successful.--
They carried the batteries, and at day break the heights
were to be seen covered with their battalions, before
whom were thrown out a considerable body of tirailleurs,
or riflemen. At the first alarm, the little detachment
stationed at Queenston, marched out to dislodge them;
but such was the impatient gallantry of General Brock,
who had succeeded to the command on this line of frontier,
that without waiting for the main body from Fort George
to come up, he threw himself at the head of the flank
companies of the Forty-Ninth, and moving forward in double
quick time, soon came within sight of the enemy.
Among the General's Aides-de-Camps, was Henry Grantham,
who having succeeded in making his escape at the fatal
defeat of the Moravian Village, with a few men of his
company, had in the absence of his Regiment, (then
prisoners of war) and from considerations of personal
esteem, been attached as a supernumerary to his staff.
With him at this moment was the light hearted De Courcy,
and as the young men rode a little in rear of their Chief,
they were so rapt in admiration of his fine form and
noble daring, (as he still kept dashing onward, far in
advance even of the handful of troops who followed eagerly
and rapidly in his rear,) that they utterly forgot the
danger to which he was exposed.
On arriving at the ascent, the General for a moment.
reined in his charger, in order to give time to the rear
to close in, then removing and waving his plumed hat,
"Hurrah, Forty-Ninth!" he exclaimed, in language suited
to those he addressed. "Up these heights lies our road--on
ourselves depends the victory. Not a shot till we gain
the summit--then three cheers for old England--a volley--and
the bayonet must do the rest!"
So saying, he resumed his hat, and wheeling his horse,
once more led his gallant little band up the hill.
But it was not likely that the Americans would suffer
the approach of so determined an enemy without attempting
to check their progress in the most efficient manner.
Distinguished from those around him by his commanding
air, not less than by the military insignia that adorned
him, the person of the General was at once recognized
for one bearing high rank, and as such became an object
of especial attention to the dispersed riflemen. Shot
after shot flew past the undaunted officer, carrying
death into the close ranks that followed noiselessly in
his rear, yet without harming him. At length he was seen
by his Aides-de-Camps, both of whom had kept their eyes
upon him, to reel in his saddle. An instant brought the
young men to his side, De Courcy on his right and Grantham
on his left hand. They looked up into his face. It was
suffused with the hues of death. A moment afterwards and
he fell from his horse, with his head reclining upon the
chest of Henry Grantham. There was a momentary halt in
the advancing column; all were dismayed at the dreadful
event.
De Courcy and Grantham, having abandoned their horses,
now bore their beloved leader to the side of the road,
in order to admit of the unimpeded progress of the men.
Even in his last moments the General had no other thought
but for the duty in which he was engaged.
"Bid them move on, De Courcy," he said in a faint voice,
as he remarked the sudden check which had been given to
the advance by his fall. Then, as if obedient to the
command, they renewed the ascent, each man eyeing him as
he past with a look in which deep sorrow and a desire to
avenge his death were intimately blended. "Forty-Ninth,
I have served with you from boyhood, and if ye would I
die with honor this day--carry those heights."
There was a deep murmur through the ranks of both
companies, that showed how each and all were affected by
this appealing address of the dying officer. At that
moment there arose a loud shout from the hill, as of
triumph at the fall of him they mourned. They answered
it with the fierce expression of men resolved to turn
that shout of triumph into a cry of woe; and excited,
maddened, infuriated, yet with a steadiness of movement
that claimed the admiration even of their enemies, dashed,
heedless of the galling fire of the riflemen, up the steep.
Left alone with the dying General, it became a first
consideration with the young officers to convey him
(provided he could bear removal) to some spot out of
reach of the enemy's fire, where he might breathe his
last moments in peace.
As Henry Grantham glanced his eye towards an old untenanted
building, that lay some fifty yards off the road, and
which he conceived fully adapted to the purpose, he saw
the form of a rifleman partly exposed at a corner of the
building, whose action at the moment was evidently that
of one in the act of loading his piece. The idea that
this skulking enemy might have been the same who had
given the fatal death-wound to his beloved Chief, added
to the conviction that he was preparing to put the coup
de grace to his work, filled him with the deepest desire
of vengeance. As the bodies of several men, picked off
by the tirailleurs, lay along the road, (one at no great
distance from the spot on which he stood,) he hastened
to secure the nearest musket, which, as no shot had yet
been fired by the English, he knew to be loaded.
Leaving De Courcy to support the head of the General,
the young Aid-de-Camp moved with due caution towards the
building; but ere he had gone ten paces, he beheld the
object of his pursuit issue altogether from the cover of
the building, and advance towards him with his rifle at
the trail. More and more convinced that his design was
to obtain a nearer approach, with a view to a more certain
aim, he suddenly halted, and raised the musket to his
shoulder. In vain was a shout to desist uttered by the
advancing man--in vain was his rifle thrown aside as if
in token of the absence of all hostile purpose. The
excited Henry Grantham heeded not the words--saw not the
action. He thought only of the danger of his General,
and of his desire to avenge his fall. He fired--the
rifleman staggered, and putting his hand to his breast--
"My brother! oh, my unhappy brother!" he exclaimed, and
sank senseless to the earth.
Who shall tell the horror of the unfortunate young Aid-de-
Camp, at recognizing in the supposed enemy his long
mourned and much loved Gerald--motion, sense, life, seemed
for the instant annihilated by the astounding consciousness
of the fratricidal act: the musket fell from his hands,
and he who had never known sorrow before, save through
those most closely linked to his warm affections, was
now overwhelmed, crushed by the mountain of despair that
fell upon his heart. It was some moments before he could
so far recover from the stupor into which that dear and
well remembered voice had plunged him, as to perceive
the possibility of the wound not being mortal. The thought
acted like electricity upon each stupified sense, and
palsied limb; and eager with the renewed hope, he bounded
forward to the spot where lay the unfortunate Gerald,
writhing in his agony. He had fallen on his face, but as
Henry approached him, he raised himself with one hand,
and with the other beckoned to his brother to draw near.
"Great God, what have I done!" exclaimed the unhappy
Henry, throwing himself in a paroxysm of despair upon
the body of his bleeding brother. "Gerald, my own beloved
Gerald, is it thus we meet again. Oh! if you would not
kill me, tell me that your wound is not mortal. Assure
me that I am not a fratricide. Oh, Gerald, Gerald! my
brother, tell me that you are not dying."
A faint smile passed over the pale haggard features of
Gerald: he grasped the hand of his brother and pressed
it fervently, saying--
"Henry, the hand of fate is visible in all this, therefore
condemn not yourself for that which was inevitable. I
knew of the attempt of the Americans to possess themselves
of the heights, and I crossed over with them under favor
of this disguise, determined to find death, combatting
at the side of our gallant General. Detaching myself from
the ranks, I but waited the advance of the British column
to remove from my concealment--you know the rest. But
oh, Henry! if you could divine what a relief it is to me
to part with existence, you would not wish the act undone.
This was all I asked: to see you once more--to embrace
you--and to die. Life offered me no hope but this."
Gerald expressed himself with the effort of one laboring
under strong bodily pain; and as he spoke he again sank
exhausted upon the ground.
"This packet," he continued, taking one from the breast
of the hunting frock he wore, and handing it to his
brother, who, silent and full of agony, had again raised
his head from the ground and supported it on his shoulder;
"this packet, Henry, written at various times during the
last fortnight, will explain all that has passed since
we last parted, in the Miami. When I am no more, read
it; and while you mourn over his dishonor, pity the
weakness and the sufferings of the unhappy Gerald."
Henry was nearly frantic, the hot tears fell from his
burning eyes upon the pale emaciated cheek of his
brother--and he groaned in agony.
"Oh, God!" he exclaimed, "how shall I ever survive this
blow--my brother! oh, my brother! tell me that you
forgive me."
"Most willingly; yet what is there to be forgiven? You
took me for an enemy and hence alone your error. It was
fate, Henry. A dreadful doom has long been prophesied to
the last of our race. We are the last--and this is the
consummation. Let it console you however to think that,
though your hand had not slain me another's would. In
the ranks of the enemy I should have found--Henry, my
kind, my affectionate brother--your hand--there--there--
what dreadful faintness at my heart--Matilda, it is my
turn now--Oh, God have mercy, oh--"
While this scene was passing by the road side between
the unfortunate brothers, the main body of the British
force had come up to the spot where the General still
lay expiring in the arms of De Courcy, and surrounded by
the principal of the medical staff. The majority of these
were of the Regiment previously named--veterans who had
known and loved their gallant leader during the whole
course of his spotless career, and more than one rude
hand might be seen dashing the tear that started
involuntarily to the eye. As the colors of the Forty-Ninth
passed before him, the General made an effort to address
some language of encouragement to his old corps, but the
words died away in indistinct murmurs, and waving his
hand in the direction of the heights, he sank back
exhausted with the effort, and resigned his gallant
spirit for ever.
For some minutes after life had departed, Henry Grantham
continued to hang over the body of his ill-fated brother,
with an intenseness of absorption that rendered him
heedless even of the rapid fire of musketry in the advance.
The sound of De Courcy's voice was the first thing that
seemed to call him to consciousness. De Courcy had heard
the cry uttered by the latter, on receiving the fatal
shot, and his imagination had too faithfully portrayed
the painful scene that had ensued. A friend of both
brothers, and particularly attached of late to the younger
from the similar nature of their service, he was
inexpressibly shocked, but still cherishing a hope that
the wound might not be attended with loss of life, he
expected to find his anticipations realized by some
communication from his friend. Finding however that the
one rose not, and remarking that the general demeanour
of the other was that of profound despair, he began at
length to draw the most unfavorable conclusion, and
causing the body of his Commander to be borne under cover
of the building, until proper means of transport could
be found, he hastened to ascertain the full extent of
the tragedy.
The horror and dismay depicted in his friend's countenance
were speedily reflected on his own, when he saw that the
unfortunate Gerald, whose blood had completely saturated
the earth on which he lay, was indeed no more. Language
at such a moment would not only have been superfluous,
but an insult. De Courcy caught and pressed the hand of
his friend in silence. The unfortunate young man pointed
to the dead body of his brother, and burst into tears.
While these were yet flowing in a fulness that promised
to give relief to his oppressed heart, a loud shout from
the British ranks arrested the attention of both. The
sound seemed to have an electric effect on the actions
of Henry Grantham. For the first time he appeared
conscious there was such a thing as a battle being fought.
"De Courcy!" he said starting up, and with sudden animation,
"why do we linger here--the dead," and he pointed first
to the body of the General in the distance--and then to
his brother "the wretched dead claim no service from us
now."
"You are right, Henry, our interest in those beloved
objects has caused us to be mindless of our duty to
ourselves.--See, too, how the flankers have cleared the
brow of the hill for the advance of the main body. Victory
is our own--but alas! how dearly purchased!"
"How dearly purchased, indeed!" responded Henry, in a
tone of such heart-rending agony as caused his friend to
repent the allusion. "De Courcy keep this packet, and
should I fall, let it be sent to my uncle, Colonel
D'Egville."
De Courcy accepted the trust, and the young men mounted
their horses, which a Canadian peasant had held for them
in the mean time, and dashing up the ascent, soon found
themselves where the action was hottest.
Burning with revenge, the flank companies had already
succeeded, despite of a hot and incessant fire, in gaining
the heights, and here for a considerable time they
maintained the struggle unsupported against the whole
force of the enemy. Already their bayonets had cleared
for themselves a passage to the more even ground, and
the Americans, dismayed at the intrepidity of this handful
of assailants, were evidently beginning to waver in their
ranks. A shout of victory, which was answered by the main
body of the English troops, just then gaining the summit
of the hill, completed their disorder. They stood the
charge but for a moment, then broke and fled, pursued by
their excited enemies in every direction. The chief object
of the Americans was to gain the cover of a wood that
lay at a short distance in their rear, but a body of
militia with some Indians having been sent round to occupy
it the moment the landing of the Americans was made known,
they were driven back from this their last refuge upon
the open ground, and with considerable loss.
Thus hemmed in on both sides--the rifles of the militia
and Indians on one hand; the bayonets of the British
force on the other--the Americans had no other alternative
than throw down their arms or perish to the last. Many
surrendered at discretion, and those who resisted were
driven at the point of the bayonet, to the verge of the
terrific precipices which descend abruptly from the
Heights of Queenston. Here their confusion was at the
highest--some threw down their arms and were saved, others
precipitated themselves down the abyss, where their bodies
were afterwards found, crushed and mangled in a manner
to render them scarcely recognizable even as human beings.
It was at the moment when the Americans, driven back by
the fire from the wood, were to be seen flying in despair
towards the frowning precipices of Queenston, that De
Courcy and Grantham, quitting their horses at the brow
of the hill, threw themselves in front of the victorious
and still leading flank companies. Carried away by the
excitement of his feelings, Grantham was considerably in
advance of his companion, and when the Americans, yielding
to the panic which had seized them, flew wildly, madly,
and almost unconscious of the danger, towards the precipice,
he suddenly found himself on the very verge, and amid a
group of irregulars, who arriving at the brink and seeing
the hell that yawned beneath, had turned to seek a less
terrific death at the hands of their pursuers. Despair,
rage, agony, and even terror, were imprinted on the
countenances of these, for they fought under an apparent
consciousness of disadvantage, and utterly as men without
hope.
"Forward! victory!" shouted Henry Grantham, and his sword
was plunged deep into the side of his nearest enemy.
The man fell, and writhing in the last agonies of death,
rolled onward to the precipice, and disappeared for ever
from the view.
The words--the action had excited the attention of a
tall, muscular, ferocious looking rifleman, who, hotly
pursued by a couple of Indians, was crossing the open
ground at his full speed to gain the main body of his
comrades. A ball struck him just as he had arrived within
a few feet of the spot where Henry stood, yet still
leaping onward, he made a desparate blow at the head of
the officer with the butt end of his rifle. A quick
movement disappointed the American of his aim, yet the
blow fell so violently on the shoulder that the stock
snapped suddenly asunder at the small of the butt. Stung
with pain, Henry Grantham turned to behold his enemy.
It was Desborough! The features of the settler expressed
the most savage and vindictive passions, as with the
barrel of the rifle upraised and clenched in both his
iron hands, he was about to repeat his blow. Ere it could
descend Grantham had rushed in upon him, and his sword
still reeking with the blood it had so recently spilt,
was driven to the very hilt in the body of the settler.
The latter uttered a terrific scream in which all the
most infernal of human passions were wildly blended, and
casting aside his rifle, seized the young officer in his
powerful gripe. Then ensued a contest the most strange
and awful; the settler using every endeavour to gain the
edge of the precipice, the other struggling, but in vain,
to free himself from his hold. As if by tacit consent,
both parties discontinued the struggle, and became mere
spectators of the scene.
"Villain!" shouted De Courcy, who saw with dismay the
terrible object of the settler, whose person he had
recognized--"if you would have quarter, release your
hold."
But Desborough, too much given to his revenge to heed
the words of the Aid-de-Camp, continued silently, yet
with advantage, to drag his victim nearer and nearer to
the fatal precipice; and every man in the British ranks
felt his blood to creep as they beheld the unhappy officer
borne, notwithstanding a desperate resistance, at each
moment nigher to the brink.
"For Heaven's sake, advance and seize him" exclaimed the
terrified De Courcy, leaping forward to the rescue.
Acting on the hint, two or three of the most active of
the light infantry rushed from the ranks in the direction
taken by the officer.
Desborough saw the movement, and his exertions to defeat
its object became, considering the loss of blood he had
sustained from his wounds, almost Herculean. He now stood
on the extreme verge of the precipice, where he paused
for a moment as if utterly exhausted with his previous
efforts. De Courcy was now within a few feet of his
unhappy friend, who still struggled ineffectually to free
himself, when the settler, suddenly collecting all his
energy into a final and desparate effort, raised the
unfortunate Grantham from the ground, and with a loud
and exulting laugh, dashed his foot violently against
the edge of the crag, and threw himself backward into
the hideous abyss.
A cry of horror from the lips of De Courcy was answered
by a savage shout of vengeance from the British ranks.
On rushed the line with their glittering bayonets, and
at a pace which scarcely left their enemies time to sue
for, much less obtain quarter--shrieks and groans rent
the atmosphere, and above the horrid din, might be heard
the wild and greeting cry of the vulture and the buzzard,
as the mangled bodies of the Americans rolled from rock
to rock, crashing the autumnal leaves and dried underwood
in their fall, some hanging suspended by their rent
garments to the larger trees encountered in their
course--yet by far the greater number falling into the
bottom of a chasm into which the sunbeam had never yet
penetrated. The picked and whitened bones may be seen,
shining through the deep gloom that envelopes every part
of the abyss, even to this day.
THE END.