In addition to the prisoners, the two brigs carried great quantities of fur and 600 packs of deer skins.  During darkness Lieutenant Ellis, with three armed boats and 150 United States troops and sailors, dropped alongside.  Roulette and his nine men fought desperately, one being killed and four wounded, but both vessels, of course, fell into the enemy’s hands.  This attack was contrary 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 marshalled facts and weighed conclusions.  Powerful brain and vigorous frame acted in concert.  He was enjoying the fulfilment of the promise of his youth.  God had been good.  The world had been tolerant; his fellow-men—­at least those who knew the real Isaac—­loyally appreciative.  The knowledge of his honours and fame stirred him to his soul.  Not that he was any better, or abler, he meditated, than other men, but that when “opportunity” offered he was permitted to grasp it.