at the landing-place.  Here he dismounted to survey the whole scene of action.  The Americans attacking Queenston seemed to be at least twice as strong as the British.  The artillery odds were twelve to one.  And over two thousand Americans were drawn up on the farther side of the narrow Niagara waiting their turn for the boats.  Nevertheless, the British seemed to be holding their own.  The crucial question was:  could they hold it till Sheaffe came up from Fort George, till Bullock came down from Chippawa, till both had formed front on the Heights, with Indians on their flanks and artillery support from below?

Suddenly a loud, exultant cheer sounded straight behind him, a crackling fire broke out, and he saw Wool’s Americans coming over the crest and making straight for the gun.  He was astounded; and well he might be, since the fisherman’s path had been reported impassable by troops.  But he instantly changed the order he happened to be giving from ‘Try a longer fuse!’ to ’Spike the gun and follow me!’ With a sharp clang the spike went home, and the gunners followed Brock downhill towards Queenston.  There was no time to mount, and Alfred trotted down beside his swiftly running master.  The elated Americans fired hard; but their bullets all flew high.  Wool’s three hundred then got into position on the Heights; while Brock in the village below was collecting the nearest hundred men that could be spared for an assault on the invaders.

Brock rapidly formed his men and led them out of the village at a fast run to a low stone wall, where he halted and said, ‘Take breath, boys; you’ll need it presently!’ on which they cheered.  He then dismounted and patted Alfred, whose flanks still heaved from his exertions.  The men felt the sockets of their bayonets; took breath; and then followed Brock, who presently climbed the wall and drew his sword.  He first led them a short distance inland, with the intention of gaining the Heights at the enemy’s own level before turning riverwards for the final charge.  Wool immediately formed front with his back to the river; and Brock led the one hundred British straight at the American centre, which gave way before him.  Still he pressed on, waving his sword as an encouragement for the rush that was to drive the enemy down the cliff.  The spiked eighteen-pounder was recaptured and success seemed certain.  But, just as his men were closing in, an American stepped out of the trees, only thirty yards away, took deliberate aim, and shot him dead.  The nearest men at once clustered round to help him, and one of the 49th fell dead across his body.  The Americans made the most of this target and hit several more.  Then the remaining British broke their ranks and retired, carrying Brock’s body into a house at Queenston, where it remained throughout the day, while the battle raged all round.