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!