tention of the British
merchant, her great resources were unknown except to the fur trader and
the few United States speculators whose cupidity kept pace with their
knowledge. Though the known sympathy of the United States for France was
regarded as a possible excuse for hostility towards England, as yet this
sympathy had found no official utterance, hence the outlook from a
soldier's standpoint was far from desirable. Brock's life in the West
Indies had created a distaste for garrison duty. While a past master in
the details of barrack life, his career under arms had created an
aversion for the grind of drill and parade.

Life in the high latitudes of Canada would present a clean-cut contrast
to tropical Barbadoes, but it was out of harmony with his ambition, and,
judging by his spirits, he might have been embarking for penal servitude
at Botany Bay rather than for the land which was to bring him lasting
fame. Even the attentions of the devoted Dobson, who had just filled
his pipe, did not serve to arouse him. Brock's depression was
short-lived. His optimism and faith banished gloomy thoughts. The ship
had hardly dropped the last headland of the Irish coast when the winds
bred in Labrador awoke the Viking strain in him and filled his soul with
hope. The swinging seas of this northern ocean revived thoughts of the
long-ago exploits of Sebastian Cabot, the discoverer of Newfoundland,
and of his own sea-dog ancestors, those rough-riders of the sea who had
defied the banks of Sable Island and returned to St. Peter's Port with
their rich cargoes of contraband, looking innocent as kittens, while the
ship was bursting with fur, fin and feather. So, pipe in mouth, with the
frigate close-hauled, watching her bows splintering the sea into a
million jewels, he left care behind, and thenceforward his busy brain
was forming plans that would soften his exile in that land of chilling
promise he was approaching.

He had been told to expect magnificent scenery, but was quite unprepared
for the picture that the Gulf of St. Lawrence unfolded. The Straits of
Belle Isle, the Magdalen Islands, the brazen bosom of the Bay of Chaleur
that had allured Jacques Cartier 265 years before, the might of the
noble river and the glorious vista of the citadel and frowning heights
of Quebec, where Wolfe and Montcalm fell--the ancient Stadacona framed
in the sunset--amazed him. A presage of coming conflict crowded his
brain.

* * *