BROCK IN CANADA.
Isaac Brock received with regret his orders to proceed with the 49th to
Canada. Europe was still in the clutches of war. Great opportunities
awaited the soldier of fortune in the struggle waging in the Peninsula.
The prospect for military advancement in Canada was not encouraging.
America was at peace. Canada was but slowly developing. While her
exports of lumber and fish attracted the attention of the British
merchant, her great resources were unknown except to the fur trader and
the few United States speculators whose cupidity kept pace with their
knowledge. Though the known sympathy of the United States for France was
regarded as a possible excuse for hostility towards England, as yet this
sympathy had found no official utterance, hence the outlook from a
soldier's standpoint was far from desirable. Brock's life in the West
Indies had created a distaste for garrison duty. While a past master in
the details of barrack life, his career under arms had created an
aversion for the grind of drill and parade.
Life in the high latitudes of Canada would present a clean-cut contrast
to tropical Barbadoes, but it was out of harmony with his ambition, and,
judging by his spirits, he might have been embarking for penal servitude
at Botany Bay rather than for the land which was to bring him lasting
fame. Even the attentions of the devoted Dobson, who had just filled
his pipe, did not serve to arouse him. Brock's depression was
short-lived. His optimism and faith banished gloomy thoughts. The ship
had hardly dropped the last headland of the Irish coast when the winds
bred in Labrador awoke the Viking strain in him and filled his soul with
hope. The swinging seas of this northern ocean revived thoughts of the
long-ago exploits of Sebastian Cabot, the discoverer of Newfoundland,
and of his own sea-dog ancestors, those rough-riders of the sea who had
defied the banks of Sable Island and returned to St. Peter's Port with
their rich cargoes of contraband, looking innocent as kittens, while the
ship was bursting with fur, fin and feather. So, pipe in mouth, with the
frigate close-hauled, watching her bows splintering the sea into a
million jewels, he left care behind, and thenceforward his busy brain
was forming plans that would soften his exile in that land of chilling
promise he was approaching.
He had been told to expect magnificent scenery, but was quite unprepared
for the picture that the Gulf of St. Lawrence unfolded. The Straits of
Belle Isle, the Magdalen Islands, the brazen bosom of the Bay of Chaleur
that had allured Jacques Cartier 265 years before, the might of the
noble river and the glorious vista of the citadel and frowning heights
of Quebec, where Wolfe and Montcalm fell--the ancient Stadacona framed
in the sunset--amazed him. A presage of coming conflict crowded his
brain.
* * * * *
"Manfully tell me the truth."
* * * * *
Carr, an educated soldier of the 49th, was hesitating. Desertions had
been frequent at Quebec, and discipline _must_ be restored. Stepping up,
with hand clenched, the officer continued, "Don't lie! Tell the truth
like a man. You know I have ever treated you kindly." The confession of
intended desertion followed. "Go, then," said Colonel Brock,--"go and
tell your deluded comrades everything that has passed here, and also
that I will still treat every man of you with kindness, and then you may
desert me if you please."
During the three years of his command at Montreal, York, Fort George and
Quebec, though mutiny was epidemic in both Europe and America, Brock had
lost but one man by desertion. He had won the loyalty of the rank and
file. FitzGibbon said of him that "he created by his judicious praise
the never-failing interest of the men in the ranks." His accurate
knowledge of human nature served him in the graver experiences of life
which followed. His stay in Quebec was short. A study of the ancient
citadel and its incomplete fortifications occupied his time. In the
summer of 1803 he was stationed at York, a hamlet carved out of the
backwoods, sustaining a handful of people, but famous as the
gathering-place of many wise men. He found that desertions in Upper
Canada had become too frequent. The temptations offered by a long line
of frontier easy of access, and the desperate discipline in the army,
had led to much brutality in the way of punishments.
Such were the conditions in Upper Canada when Brock reached York.
Shortly after his arrival six men, influenced by an artificer, stole a
military batteau and started across the lake to Niagara. By midnight
Brock, with his trusty sergeant-major and the ever-watchful Dobson, in
another batteau with twelve men, passed out of the western gap in hot
pursuit of the defaulters. Though the night was calm the trip was
perilous. Before them stretched a waste of water, but our hero was in
his element. He was living over again his daring visits to the Casquets
through the furious seas that raced between St. Sampson and the Isle of
Herm.
The crew was divided into "watches," six taking an hour's "breather"
while the other six rowed, hour and hour about, alternately rowing and
resting. When the wind served they hoisted their big square sail, our
hero at the tiller. On this occasion there was little wind, and "Master
Isaac," for example's sake, and "to keep my biceps and fore-arm in good
condition"--as he told the sergeant-major--took his regular spells at
the oar. On arriving at Fort George, Colonel Hunter, Governor and
Commandant, rebuked him for rashly venturing across the lake in an open
boat, "a risk," he said, "never before undertaken."[1] The expedition,
however, was successful, for the deserters were surprised on the
American shore and made prisoners.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Lake Ontario was crossed from Toronto to the wharf at the mouth of
the Niagara River in an ordinary double-scull, lap-strake
pleasure-skiff, by the writer and another Argonaut--Herbert
Bartlett--one unruly morning in the summer of 1872. Though a risky row,
and not previously attempted, it was not regarded as a remarkable feat
by the performers.
[Illustration: VIEW OF QUEENSTON ROAD, ABOUT 1824]