The cannonade proving ineffective, as judged by visible results, Brock issued orders to cross the river at dawn, when he would make the attempt to take the fort by storm—­and soldier and militiaman bivouacked on their arms.

* * * * *

Camp fires were extinguished, but the tireless fireflies danced in the blackness of the wood.  The river gurgled faintly in the wind-stirred reeds.  From out the gloom of the thicket came the weird coco-coco of the horned owl.  From the starlit sky above fell the shrill cry of the mosquito hawk, “peepeegeeceese, peepeegeeceese!” From an isolated bark tepee came the subdued incantation of the Indian medicine-man, while above the singing of the tree-tops and over all, clear and with clock-like regularity, floated the challenge of the sentry and answering picket: 

“Who goes there?”

“A friend.”

“All’s well.”

CHAPTER XIX.

THE ATTACK ON DETROIT.

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.