trary to the
rules of war, and a violation of the sanctity of the flag which
"continued to float as long as there were American prisoners on board,
awaiting to be landed on United States soil."

Brock regarded this loss as a calamity. It was, he wrote to Prevost,
"likely to reduce him to great distress." His constant fears that the
enemy would secure control of both Lakes Erie and Ontario were well
founded. He begged Prevost to let him destroy the vessels Chauncey, the
American, was building on Squaw Island. Prevost, of course, besought him
to forbear. Isaac Brock, exasperated and with tied hands, was "doomed to
the bitterest of all griefs, to see clearly and yet be able to do
nothing." Yet while he worked in chains his preparedness was a source of
wonder to those behind the scenes.

Even no less a critic than John Lovett, General Van Rensselaer's
military secretary, was impressed with what he saw through his
field-glasses from Lewiston heights. "Every three or four miles, on
every eminence," he wrote a friend, "Brock has erected a snug battery,
the last saucy argument of kings, poking their white noses and round
black nostrils right upon your face, ready to spit fire and brimstone in
your very teeth, if you were to offer to turn squatter on John Bull's
land." Influenced by these signs of "business," the United States
officers were ordered to "dress as much like their men as possible, so
that at 150 yards they might not be recognized." This was probably due
to one of the last orders issued by our hero, who warned his men that,
when the enemy crossed the river, to withhold their musketry fire until
he was well within range, and then, "if he lands, attack him at the
point of the bayonet with determined resolution."

With clairvoyance that would have done credit to a mind-reader, Brock
knew that attack was imminent. To him the wind that blew across the
river October 12th was laden with omens of war. The air seemed charged
with the acrid smell of burnt powder. The muffled beat of drums, the
smothered boom of artillery, the subdued clash of steel meeting steel,
the stealthy tramp of armed men, seemed to encompass him.

* * * * *

Brock was at his headquarters. He gazed from the window. The storm
outside was hurling great splashes of rain against the narrow casement.
To and fro, over the carpeted floor, he paced that evening for an hour
or more, uninterrupted and alone. It was thus he marsh