hed to life
in sheets of fire, lighting up the dark tide of the river gorge and
sinking half a dozen boat loads of men now coming on a second traverse.
Instantly Lewiston's cannon pealed furious answer to the Canadian fire,
and in the sheet-lightning flame of the flaring batteries thousands
could be seen on the American shore watching the conflict. As the
Americans landed they hugged the rock cliff for shelter, but the
mortality on the crossing boats was terrible; and each passage carried
back quota of wounded. Van Rensselaer was shot in the thigh almost as
he landed, but still he held his men in hand. A second shot pierced
the same side. A third struck his knee. Six wounds he received in as
many seconds; and he was carried back in the boats to the Lewiston
side. Then began a mad scramble through the darkness {346} up a
fisherman's path steep as trail of mountain goat, sheer against the
face of the cliff. When day dawned misty and gray over the black tide
of the rolling river, the Canadian batterymen of Queenston Heights were
astounded to see American sharp-shooters mustered on the cliff behind
and above them. A quick rush, and the Canadian batterymen were driven
from their ground, the Canadian cannon silenced, and while wild
shoutings of triumph rose from the spectators at Lewiston, the American
boats continued to pour soldiers across the river.

It was at this stage Brock came riding from Fort George so spattered
with mud from head to heel he was not recognized by the soldiers. One
glance was enough. The Canadians had lost the day. Sending messengers
to bid General Sheaffe hurry the troops from Fort George, and other
runners to bring up the troops from Chippewa behind the Americans on
Queenston Heights, Brock charged up the hill amid shriek of bombs and
clatter of sharpshooters. He had dismounted and was scrambling over a
stone wall. "Follow me, boys!" he shouted to the British grenadiers;
then at the foot of the hill, waving his sword: "Now take a breath; you
will need it! Come on! come on!" and he led the rush of two hundred
men in scarlet coats to dislodge the Americans. A shot pierced his
wrist. "Push on, York volunteers," he shouted. His portly figure in
scarlet uniform was easy mark for the sharpshooters hidden in the brush
of Queenston Heights. One stepped deliberately out and took aim.
Though a dozen Canadian muskets flashed answer, Brock fell, shot
through the breast, dying with the words on