General Sheaffe, the only field officer available, and junior colonel of the 49th, of whom the reader has already heard, had been brought from the East to take command at Niagara in Brock's absence. Like Prevost, he was born in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1763, a son of the deputy collector of that port. There the two had been school-fellows, and both found it difficult to engage in vigorous diplomatic or military conflict with the Americans. To Sheaffe's credit, it should be said that he applied for another station.

It was Sheaffe, however, who acceded to General Dearborn's specious demand that the freedom of the lakes and rivers be extended to the United States Government during the armistice. This was done while Brock was in the West. Sheaffe it also was who, with hat in hand and strange alacrity, later agreed, despite his first terrible blunder, to repeat the offence. On the very afternoon that the British defeated the Americans at Queenston, and when the moral effect of that victory, followed up by vigorous attack, would have saved Canada from a continuance of the war, and deplorable loss of life and trade, Sheaffe actually agreed to another armistice. For this second truce, like his first, "no valid reason, military or civil, has ever been assigned." As far as the British were concerned, neither of these two was necessary, but, on the contrary, directly to their disadvantage. Isaac Brock, alas! was not made in duplicate.

Our hero remained but a few hours in Kingston. He was needed in Niagara. The enemy was burning to avenge Detroit. The sight of Hull's ragged legions passing as prisoners of war along the Canadian bank of the river, bound for Montreal, did not tend to soften the hearts of the Americans. Stores and ordnance continued to pour into Lewiston. Brock needed 1,000 additional regulars. He might as well have asked for the moon. Early in September he stated that if he could maintain his position six weeks longer "the campaign would end in a manner little expected in the States." Scores of American marines and seamen were marking time, waiting for the launching of the vessels which Captain Chauncey had been given free license to build to ensure United States supremacy of the lakes. Prevost's eyes were still bandaged. Brock warned his grenadiers of the 49th to be ready for trouble. He foresaw that the Niagara river would be crossed, but at what point was uncertain. Stray musket-balls whistled across at night as thick as whip-poor-wills in summer. This firing was "the unauthorized warfare between sentinels." The peaceful citizens of Newark, returning from dance or card-party—even the imminence of war did not wholly stifle their desire for innocent revelry—found it embarrassing.

Though Van Rensselaer's force now numbered 6,300 men, he was still afraid to attack Brock. Invited by the United States Government to take up arms, 400 Seneca Indians "went upon the war-path," and performed ghost-dances on the streets of Lewiston. Prevost, with no proper conception of the doctrine of "what we have we hold," ordered Brock to "evacuate Detroit and the territory of Michigan." To "the man behind the gun," who had but just donated this 60,000 square miles of realty to the Empire, such instructions were hardly to his taste. Armed with powers of discretion, our hero declined. Meanwhile Isaac's heart was sore. The situation was galling. If there was to be no more fighting, why should he not get his release, join Wellington in Portugal, and renounce Canada? Unrest and vigilance best describe the order of his days, while waiting attack. The death of the ever-attentive Dobson, who had passed away before Brock's departure for Detroit, and the absence of the faithful sergeant-major—now Adjutant FitzGibbon—distressed him. In an attempt by General Brown to capture some British batteaux at Tousaint Island, on the St. Lawrence, the Americans had been repulsed by Brock's gallant protÉgÉ.

Everything now pointed to an early attack by the enemy in force. General Van Rensselaer, with an ascertained army of at least 6,300, of which 2,600 were militia, wrote that he "would cross the river in the rear of Fort George, take it by storm, carry the Heights of Queenston, destroy the British ships—the Prince Regent and Earl Moira—at the mouth of the river, leave Brock no rallying point, appal the minds of the Canadians, and wipe away the past disgrace."

On one of his visits to Fort George he had remarked to Brock, who had laughingly pointed out two beautiful brass howitzers taken from General Wayne, "Oh, yes, they are old friends of mine; I must take them back." They were not taken back in Brock's time. Even with his grand army of 6,300, his 400 Seneca braves, and his written admission that Niagara was weakly garrisoned, it is certain Van Rensselaer would have still delayed attack, unless he had been told by his spies that Brock had returned to Detroit. Then, with valour oozing from his finger tips, he plucked up courage to attack the lair in the lion's absence.

At this juncture an untoward event occurred, in the re-taking by the Americans of the brig Detroit, formerly the United States brig Adams—captured, as we know, by Roulette—and the trading brig Caledonia. They were at anchor at the head of the Niagara River, off Black Rock. The irregular regiments of Hull's command, under the terms of surrender, were on board on their way to their Ohio homes, via Lake Erie and Buffalo. The two vessels reached Fort Erie harbour safely, and being rightly regarded by the British as immune from attack, were left undefended, in charge of an officer and nine men only, most of whom were voyageurs. In addition to the prisoners, the two brigs carried great quantities of fur and 600 packs of deer skins. During darkness Lieutenant Ellis, with three armed boats and 150 United States troops and sailors, dropped alongside. Roulette and his nine men fought desperately, one being killed and four wounded, but both vessels, of course, fell into the enemy's hands. This attack was contrary to the rules of war, and a violation of the sanctity of the flag which "continued to float as long as there were American prisoners on board, awaiting to be landed on United States soil."

Brock regarded this loss as a calamity. It was, he wrote to Prevost, "likely to reduce him to great distress." His constant fears that the enemy would secure control of both Lakes Erie and Ontario were well founded. He begged Prevost to let him destroy the vessels Chauncey, the American, was building on Squaw Island. Prevost, of course, besought him to forbear. Isaac Brock, exasperated and with tied hands, was "doomed to the bitterest of all griefs, to see clearly and yet be able to do nothing." Yet while he worked in chains his preparedness was a source of wonder to those behind the scenes.

Even no less a critic than John Lovett, General Van Rensselaer's military secretary, was impressed with what he saw through his field-glasses from Lewiston heights. "Every three or four miles, on every eminence," he wrote a friend, "Brock has erected a snug battery, the last saucy argument of kings, poking their white noses and round black nostrils right upon your face, ready to spit fire and brimstone in your very teeth, if you were to offer to turn squatter on John Bull's land." Influenced by these signs of "business," the United States officers were ordered to "dress as much like their men as possible, so that at 150 yards they might not be recognized." This was probably due to one of the last orders issued by our hero, who warned his men that, when the enemy crossed the river, to withhold their musketry fire until he was well within range, and then, "if he lands, attack him at the point of the bayonet with determined resolution."

With clairvoyance that would have done credit to a mind-reader, Brock knew that attack was imminent. To him the wind that blew across the river October 12th was laden with omens of war. The air seemed charged with the acrid smell of burnt powder. The muffled beat of drums, the smothered boom of artillery, the subdued clash of steel meeting steel, the stealthy tramp of armed men, seemed to encompass him.

Brock was at his headquarters. He gazed from the window. The storm outside was hurling great splashes of rain against the narrow casement. To and fro, over the carpeted floor, he paced that evening for an hour or more, uninterrupted and alone. It was thus he marshalled facts and weighed conclusions. Powerful brain and vigorous frame acted in concert. He was enjoying the fulfilment of the promise of his youth. God had been good. The world had been tolerant; his fellow-men—at least those who knew the real Isaac—loyally appreciative. The knowledge of his honours and fame stirred him to his soul. Not that he was any better, or abler, he meditated, than other men, but that when "opportunity" offered he was permitted to grasp it.

The influence of the great truth as pronounced in the now familiar couplet inspired him. He recognized the source whence he derived whatever of success had followed his efforts, and prayed for greater sagacity, more vigour of body and tenacity of purpose, a complete surrender of self to the task before him; that if his life was to be the price of duty, he might place it on the altar of his country without one shred of compunction.

He rang the bell for Porter—his body-servant since Dobson's death—directed him to see that the council room was lighted, that pens, ink, paper and cigars were in place, as a meeting of his staff was slated for nine, and sought his sanctum.

Powder Magazine, Fort George, Niagara

Powder Magazine, Fort George, Niagara