THE MIDNIGHT GALLOP.
Well into the half-light of morning, long after the last of his staff,
Evans, Glegg and Macdonell, had departed, Brock sat alone at his
headquarters at Fort George, writing rapidly.
On the oak mantel, an antique clock chimed the passing of the historic
hours, with deep, musical strokes.
Was it presentiment--a clearer understanding that comes to men of active
brain and acute perception, during solitary vigil in the silence of
night, when, with heart and soul stripped, they stand on the threshold
of the great divide--that whispered to this "knight of the sword" his
doom? Was it this clearer comprehension that caused our hero to bow his
head as a faint message from an unseen messenger reached him? With a
sigh of resignation he arose from the unfinished manuscript and passed
on to his bedroom.
* * * * *
Boom! Boom! Boom!
* * * * *
A muffled, indistinct roar, a confusion of sounds, aroused the
half-conscious sleeper. Brock sprang from his couch, partly dressed.
The antique clock chimed one--two--three!
"Listen," he muttered to himself, "that was not a signal gun. Surely it
was the sound of sustained firing." As he unlocked the outer door,
opening on the barrack-square, the sky above faintly aglow with the
light of warning beacons, the low, steady roll of musketry and louder
roar of distant cannon convinced him that this was far more serious than
"the war between sentries."
"My good Porter," he said, speaking calmly to his excited servant, who,
himself awakened, came rushing to his master, "have Alfred saddled at
once while I complete dressing, and inform Major Glegg and Colonel
Macdonell that I am off up the river to Queenston."
In another minute Isaac Brock was in the saddle.
As he passed through the gates, thrown open by the sentry, a dragoon,
mire from head to foot from furious riding, handed him a despatch
announcing that the enemy had landed in force at Queenston. A second
later, in response to the pressure of his knees, his horse was carrying
our hero at a wild gallop across the common that separated his quarters
from the upper village.
Day was near to breaking. The earth steamed from the heavy rain. Passing
objects rose out of the dark mists, magnified and spectral.
At the residence of Captain John Powell, Brock reined up. The household
was astir, aroused by the ominous roar of artillery carried down by the
river from the gorge above. He stayed, without dismounting, long enough
to take a cup of coffee brought to him by General Shaw's daughter--a
"stirrup cup"--his last. Then, giving his charger the spur, he rode away
to death and distinction, tenderly waving a broken good-bye to the
sad-eyed woman at the porch. This was his betrothed, who faintly
fluttered her kerchief in weeping farewell to the gallant lover she
would never see again.
Brushing his eyes and urging his big grey to greater speed, "Master
Isaac," eager to reach the scene of trouble, struck across the village,
his horse's hoof-beats bringing many a citizen to the door to "God speed
him." Some came out to follow him, and many a good wife's face was
pressed to the window to watch "The General! God bless and spare him,"
as he headed his charger for the Queenston Road and Brown's Point. Among
the more zealous hastening after Brock were Judge Ralph Clench and a few
old half-pay officers of His Majesty's service, who hurried to Queenston
to range themselves in the ranks of the volunteers. Others joined as the
signal guns and the bells of the church of St. Mark's and the
court-house spread the alarm.
His road lay up hill. Seven miles back from the shore of Lake Ontario
stretched the height of land, extending west from the river to the head
of the lake--a gigantic natural dam, over 300 feet high and twenty miles
through; a retaining wall of rock, the greatest original fresh-water
_barrage_ in the world.
He paused a moment at Frields to order the militia company there to
follow. Close to Brown's Point he met another galloper, S.P. Jarvis, of
the York volunteers, who was riding so furiously that he could not check
his horse, but shouted as he flew by, "The Americans are crossing the
river in force, sir." Jarvis wheeled and overtook the General, who,
without reining up, slackened his speed sufficiently to tell the rider
not to spare his horse, but to hurry on to Fort George and order General
Sheaffe to bring up his entire reserve and let loose Brant's Indian
scouts. A mile or so farther on, Jarvis met Colonel Macdonell, in hot
pursuit of their beloved commander. The aide, in his haste, had left his
sword behind him, and borrowed a less modern sabre from Jarvis, who
continued his mad gallop towards Fort George, little thinking he had
seen the last of his gallant General and the dashing aide, meeting, a
few minutes later, Major Glegg, also riding post haste to overtake the
General.
Meanwhile our hero had halted for a moment at Brown's Point, only to
learn that Cameron's Toronto company of volunteers had already started,
on their own initiative, up the river. Riding hard, he overtook the
excited militiamen. Speaking a word to the officer in charge, he wheeled
his horse in the direction of the Heights, calling upon the detachment
in his well-known voice, and in a way that never failed to exact
obedience:
"Now, my men, follow me."
* * * * *
The east showed signs of approaching day, and Brock, only two miles from
Queenston, was treated to a spectacle that quickened his pulses. Shells
were bursting on the mountain side above the village. The shadows of the
dying night were streaked with the light from an incessant fire of
small-arms. Grapeshot and musket-balls were ploughing up inky river and
grim highland. At Vrooman's battery, on Scott's Point, guarded by
Heward's volunteer company from Little York, and some of Hatt's company
of the 5th Lincoln militia, a mile from Queenston, the twenty-four-pound
shells from the gun, mounted _en barbette_, which commanded at long
range both landings, were leaving behind them furrows of fire in the
black gorge. The big gun was pouring a continuous stream of destructive
metal upon the American boats that were attempting the passage of the
river within the limited zone of its fire.[3]
Fort Gray, above Lewiston, was fairly belching flames, to which the
isolated eighteen-pounder on the Queenston redan was roaring an angry
and defiant response. Brock's trained ear recognized the wicked barking
of the brass six-pounders, under Dennis of the 49th, mingling with the
occasional boom, of the twenty-four-pound carronade below the village.
The village of Queenston consisted of a small stone-barracks and twenty
or more scattered dwellings in the midst of gardens and orchards. To
Brock's right a road from the landing led to St. David's, from which, at
almost right angles, an irregular branch roadway wound up the Heights.
The adjacent table-land west of the village was dotted with farm-houses,
partly surrounded by snake-fences and an occasional stone wall.
Above Vrooman's he was joined by his two aides. Here he met a few men,
shockingly torn and bleeding, crawling to the houses for shelter, and
quite a number of prisoners, and was told that the enemy was routed. All
killed or taken prisoners! Very skeptical, but increasing his speed, our
hero rode into the village, and, though stained and splashed with mud
from stirrup to cockade, he was recognized, and welcomed by the men of
the 49th with a ringing cheer.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] This gun is credited with having fired 160 shots during the
engagement.
[Illustration: BATTLE OF QUEENSTON HEIGHTS. From an old Print]