eh's
half-naked braves.

The air was filled with the fragrance of orchard and forest. Facing our
hero, flowed the river, broad, swift and deep; tufted wolf-willow,
waving rushes and gray hazel fringing the banks. Across and beyond this
almost mile-wide ribbon of water, the imposing walls of Fort Detroit
confronted him. Approaching him at a rapid gait he at last espied his
two despatch bearers, their scarlet tunics vivid against the green
background. They reported that, after waiting upon Hull for two hours
without being granted an interview, they were handed the following
reply:

"General Hull is prepared to meet any force brought against him, and
accept any consequences."

Brock instructed his gunners to acknowledge the receipt of this
challenge with the thunder of their batteries, and from then, far into
the night, shells and round-shot shrieked their way across the river,
the answering missiles from Hull's seven twenty-four-pounders breaking
in a sheet of flame from the very dust created by the British
cannon-balls that exploded on the enemy's breastworks. Through the irony
of fate, the first shot fired under Brock's personal orders in the cause
of Canadian freedom killed a United States officer, an intimate friend
of the British artilleryman who had trained the gun. Such are the
arguments of war.

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.