Meanwhile, down at Fort George, Brock had been roused by the cannonade only three hours after he had finished his dispatches.  Twenty-four American guns were firing hard at Queenston from the opposite shore and two British guns were replying.  Fort Niagara, across the river from Fort George, then began to speak; whereupon Fort George answered back.  Thus the sound of musketry, five to seven miles away, was drowned; and Brock waited anxiously to learn whether the real attack was being driven home at Queenston, or whether the Americans were circling round from their Four Mile Creek against his own position at Fort George.  Four o’clock passed.  The roar of battle still came down from Queenston.  But this might be a feint.  Not even Dennis at Queenston could tell as yet whether the main American army was coming against him or not.  But he knew they must be crossing in considerable force, so he sent a dragoon galloping down to Brock, who was already in the saddle giving orders to Sheaffe and to the next senior officer, Evans, when this messenger arrived.  Sheaffe was to follow towards Queenston the very instant the Americans had shown their hand decisively in that direction; while Evans was to stay at Fort George and keep down the fire from Fort Niagara.

Then Brock set spurs to Alfred and raced for Queenston Heights.  It was a race for more than his life, for more, even, than his own and his army’s honour:  it was a race for the honour, integrity, and very life of Canada.  Miles ahead he could see the spurting flashes of the guns, the British two against the American twenty-four.  Presently his quick eye caught the fitful running flicker of the opposing lines of musketry above the landing-place at Queenston.  As he dashed on he met a second messenger, Lieutenant Jarvis, who was riding down full-speed to confirm the news first brought by the dragoon.  Brock did not dare draw rein; so he beckoned Jarvis to gallop back beside him.  A couple of minutes sufficed for Brock to understand the whole situation and make his plan accordingly.  Then Jarvis wheeled back with orders for Sheaffe to bring up every available man, circle round inland, and get into touch with the Indians.  A few strides more, and Brock was ordering the men on from Brown’s Point.  He paused another moment at Vrooman’s, to note the practice made by the single gun there.  Then, urging his gallant grey to one last turn of speed, he burst into Queenston through the misty dawn just where the grenadiers of his own old regiment stood at bay.

In his full-dress red and gold, with the arrow-patterned sash Tecumseh had given him as a badge of honour at Detroit, he looked, from plume to spur, a hero who could turn the tide of battle against any odds.  A ringing cheer broke out in greeting.  But he paused no longer than just enough to wave a greeting back and take a quick look round before scaling the Heights to where eight gunners with their single eighteen-pounder were making a desperate effort to check the Americans