Morning came all too slowly for Brock's impatient soldiers. At last the reveille warned the expectant camp. The sun rose, a red-hot shell out of the faint August haze, huge and threatening. With its advent the British batteries resumed their fire, aided by the guns on the Queen Charlotte and Hunter, which lay in the river, above the village known to-day as Windsor, to cover the embarkation of the troops in batteaux and canoes.

Brock's entire force consisted of only 330 regulars and 400 militia, some of whom, acting on a happy thought, were disguised in discarded uniforms of the 41st. This army was supported by five pieces of artillery. All crossed the river in safety, landing at Spring Wells, four miles below. The Indians, 600 strong, under Tecumseh, in addition to the men of his own nation, consisted of many Sioux, Wyandottes and Dacotahs. The majority of these crossed under cover of the night. History records no instance of a determined force being stopped by a river. The Detroit River presented an animated picture. Edging their way through a maze of boats and batteaux, and in marked contrast to the scarlet-coated soldiers and blue-shirted sailors, bark canoes on which were drawn in flaring colours a variety of barbaric designs, flitted here and there, their crews of half-naked savages fearsome in fresh war-paint and gaudy feathers. Coo-ees, shrieks and shrill war-whoops—"Ah-oh! Ah-oo!" like the dismal yells of a pack of coyotes—rent the air, the discordant din ever and anon drowned by the thunder of the guns from the Sandwich batteries.

Upon landing Brock mustered his men. The reports showed 750 of all ranks, including the voyageurs left in charge of the river squadron. The 600 Indians deployed in the shelter of the woods, skirmishing to effect a flank movement. The column, having formed, was moved forward in sections, and at double distance, to lend a fictitious air of strength; the light artillery, of three, six, and two three-pounders, being immediately in rear of the advance guards, the whole preceded by fluttering standards and rolling drums. Three generations ago! Yet you can see it all to-day as plainly as Brock saw it, if you but close your eyes and conjure up the past.

The enemy, over 2,000 strong, drawn up in line upon an overlooking rise, had planted in the roadway, commanding the approach to the town, two twenty-four pounders, each loaded with six dozen grapeshot, around which the gunners stood with burning fuses, challenging our hero's advance.

Up and down, in front of the line, rode Isaac Brock on his gray charger, his brilliant uniform—khaki was unknown in those days—flashing in the morning sun, a shining mark. A command here, a kindly rebuke there, a word of encouragement to all ranks; the eyes of Britain and Canada were upon them; they might have to take the fort by storm,—even so, honour and glory awaited them.... Forward then, for King and country!

The rat-a-tat-tat of the kettle-drums, the clear-cut whistle of the fifes, the resonant roll of the big drums, the steady tramp, tramp of armed men—and the human machine was in motion.

The long grim guns on Fort Detroit and Hull's field-pieces pointed their black muzzles at the column. Up and down, in front of his men, rode Isaac Brock.

Now this was more than some flesh and blood could stand. Spurring his horse, acting Quartermaster-General Nichol reined up alongside his beloved commander. "General," he said, saluting his leader, while the soldiers' faces expressed dumb approval, "forgive me, but I cannot forbear entreating you not to expose yourself. If we lose you, we lose all. I pray you, allow the troops to advance, led by their own officers."

"Master Nichol," said Brock, turning in his saddle and returning the salute of the gallant Quartermaster, "I fully appreciate your kindly advice, but I feel that, in addition to their sense of loyalty and duty, there are many here following me from a feeling of personal regard, and I will never ask them to go where I do not lead."

Before him spread the plain, broken here and there with coulees and clumps of bush. A partly fenced roadway, with some scattered houses on the river bank, but no barbed-wire entanglements, impeded his movements. The introduction of such pleasant devices was left for a higher civilization!

The column was in motion. The steady onward tramp, tramp of this thin red line, raw recruit and grizzly veteran shoulder to shoulder, struck fear into the heart of the unfortunate Hull. The prospect, though his troops outnumbered the British three to one, was clearly war to the knife. Brock's meaning was apparent. Should he or should he not accept the Englishman's challenge? He could extract no comfort out of that solid scarlet front, bristling with naked steel, now fast approaching in battle array with even, ominous tread.

The siege-proof walls of the fort lay behind him. His irresolute heart grew faint, and in the flash of a flintlock in its pan, honour was sacrificed and fame cast to the winds. A brave army of martyrs, over 2,000 strong, was rightabout faced, and drinking the cup of humiliation, that only men of courage can drain to the bitter dregs, this army, eager to lock bayonets with the British, was actually ordered to retreat into the shelter of Fort Detroit!

Lieut.-Colonel John Macdonell

Lieut.-Colonel John Macdonell