e issues
and chosen the lesser alternative. His own defeat and possibly his
death, on the one hand, against the probable salvation of half a
continent on the other. What true soldier could hesitate?

While patiently hearing objections, he brushed the most of them aside as
mere flies on the wheel. Surely the way had been opened to him. The
seized despatches had revealed the discord among Hull's troops and shown
him that while the United States militia, the flower of Ohio and
Kentucky, was of good material, the United States soldiers were not. He
knew that the situation in Upper Canada called for extreme measures, and
that the time to strike was now or never, for his scouts had truly
reported that 350 United States mounted troops were pressing close upon
his rear. They were, in fact, only a mile or two distant. If his own
inferior force was outflanked, or his communication with the Canadian
interior cut, it spelled utter disaster. He was in a wilderness without
hope of reinforcements. As Colonel Cass, the United States commander,
later reported to the President, Brock was "between two fires and with
no hope of succour." Brock knew he must act at once or even retreat
might be impossible. With inborn acumen he saw at a glance the peril of
his own position, and with cool courage hastened to avert it. He
realized that upon the "destruction or discomfiture" of Hull's forces
"the safety of the province depended."

Brock listened closely to Procter's argument--by this time he knew, of
course, that Hull's own line of communication with his reserves had been
cut--then rising, when all who cared to speak had finished, he said:
"Gentlemen, I have definitely decided on crossing the river and
attacking Fort Detroit. Instead of further advice I must beg of you to
give me your hearty support. The general orders for to-morrow will be
issued at once."

This decision was typical of the man of action. "Prudent only where
recklessness was a fault, and hazardous only when hesitation meant
defeat."

CHAPTER XVIII.

AN INDIAN POW-WOW.

It was a picturesque council of white men and Indians that was held at
dawn in an open glade of the forest. The fragrant odours of the bush
mingled with the pungent smoke of the red willow-bark, puffed from a
hundred pipes. Conspicuous at this pow-wow was Tecumseh, who across his
close-fitting buckskin hunting jacket, which descended to his knees and
was trimmed with split leather fringe, wore a b