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Charging up the lush, green, forested hill alongside my brave, admirable leader, Lieutenant-General Isaac Brock, I am clad in my red uniform of the British army. Ahead of me Brock, a 43 year-old with a pale face, crooked nose, brown hair, and keen blue eyes, leads my regiment, the 49th, as we storm through the woods and up the hill towards the top of Queenstone Heights, where the American army has managed to sneak a small force of troops.
When I first met Brock in England he told me how he had joined the army. He is ten years older than I and he was born in 1769, the eighth child in his family in Guernsey, England. Three of his older brothers had decided to make a name for themselves in the army and Brock followed them. In 1785 he joined a small band called the Eighth Regiment of Foot. Not long after, he quit that and joined the 49th.
That is where we met�in the army. Since then we were separated from Britain, and ordered to depart to Canada, where we arrived in 1802. For a short time Brock commanded the garrison in Lower Canada; after that he was assigned control of all troops in Upper Canada. He is a brilliant commander and his heroism has become legendary. I was with him when he rushed his troops from Kingston to Detroit, and tricked Commander Hull, leader of Fort Detroit at the time, into surrendering without a shot being fired; Brock then rushed his troops back to Kingston before the Americans retaliated. But now a new battle looms at Queenstone Heights.
The Americans are situated on top of the heights after having struck luck to the core. They had managed to locate a small fisherman�s path that leads from the bottom of the steep, rocky cliff around the back to the top, where our now spiked cannons are. They have captured the heights. Our army is scattered, everything is in disarray. But Brock will not give up. Brock plans to lead the 49th on a quick counter-offensive.
As the trees fly by, the sound of gunfire pierces the air, the scent of dawn looms, and Sir Isaac Brock leads our small brigade on the counter-offensive.
Now the trees become farther and farther apart as we enter a clearing, the sound of gunfire seems closer, the scent of dawn is falling, the hill is relatively flat now, and, while Sir Isaac Brock charges, a fear strikes into my heart. In front of me, I see Brock stumble at the precise moment I hear a gunshot. Suddenly, the world turns into a dull shade of gray and everything slows down. I fix my gaze on Brock as he clutches his hand to his chest, nearly collapsing to the ground. I reach out my hand to steady him and he regains his balance. I am sure that there is no way we can retake the Heights now, not without Brock. I lose all hope. Then suddenly, I see colour come back to the battle, and for a moment, I am left standing as my brigade rushes onward. I rejoin the charge with Brock running along side me.
Lessons are learned in dark times, and Brock inspires me now. With a bullet pierced through his hand he pushes on, grimacing. He taught me to always push on, no matter how grim and painful things might look. This lesson affects me now, and I push my legs, heart, and breathing faster, until I pull up beside Brock. I glance at him, and he meets my gaze. He nods just I hear the scream of a bullet ripping through air. I gape towards the assailant, and then I hear a choking gasp from behind me. Brock falls to the ground, clutching his chest in agony, his pale face contorted. This time the world does not grow dim; things do not slow down. I stop abruptly in the open, stunned. The 49th charges past me, surrounding me, engulfing me, and yet somehow I feel alone and adrift.
Slowly, the men begin to realize the shear disaster that has struck, and then, one by one, they stagger back to where I stand, still stunned, beside Brock�s limp body. Full of anguish and fear, the men hoist Brock up into their arms and begin the descent into town. I regain myself and yell, �No! We must PUSH ON!! We are almost there!� My voice fades in their ears, as they show no sign of turning back, �It�s what he would have wanted,� I whisper. I charge after them.
There is no changing those men�s minds now, so I lead the way towards town. Not long after, Brock is pronounced dead. Grim, sad faces and thoughts are everywhere, but under all our troubles we were all thinking the same thing.
�To Queenstone Heights! There we shall make our amends! We shall avenge this great man!� I roar as the men lift their weapons.
We charge back up the hill full of desire and vigor and determination.
This time we climb quickly; when we approach the top of the hill, the Americans are ready, however. They pick us off as we climb, when the remaining men and I reach the plateau, half of us lie dead in the forest. I had narrowly avoided being struck by death itself, and that set the shape of my feelings right now: I lose all hope. Not only do we have fewer soldiers than the Americans, but we are standing in a field while the enemy can take cover behind rocks and trees.
However, just as always, the 49th and I push on. We open fire on a small band of Americans near the cliff, but to our dismay, not a bullet lands true. Slowly, the Americans draw more numbers toward our attack, easily surrounding us. With my spirits sinking further down, I turn heel and run. I have already lost hope in battle, now my only hope is in my own life. The 49th follow me.
We drop halfway down the hillside, waiting for re-enforcements. �It�s hopeless. We have one quarter of their numbers and they have the height and cover advantage. The battle is already over,� one of my fellow soldiers declares.
This statement sparks new hope for me: My attitude is rubbing off on what is left of the 49th. I sure as hell won�t let Brock down. I�ll fight to the end.
�No,� I reply, �we wait for more troops. They come straight on and we charge up and flank them.�
At that moment, a war cry punctures the air in the distance. As more war cries slice the silence, I notice they are coming closer. �Natives,� I whisper to the fearful men, �They are coming this way. We must move uphill. They won�t suspect us there.�
We move closer to the Heights, taking cover behind trees at all times. Wearing bright red isn�t the best clothing for hiding, but for what feels like an eternity we wait in silence. I pray for every one of us to be left hidden, but soon my prayers seem to bring the worst possible: An American soldier, armed to the teeth, walks down the hillside, probably to take a piss. I wish for everyone to keep quiet, that he will not spot us. A young man, cowering behind a tree next to me, is shaking nervously. He coughs. The moment slows as I pray a second time that the American doesn�t notice us. He turns his head towards the sound, and spots the young man, against my wishes.
He opens his mouth to yell to his companions, but no sound comes out. He collapses to the ground, and I notice a tomahawk piercing his back. �The natives,� I yell, �They are on our side!� A lone native walks forward, clad in brown with long black hair and penetrating black eyes, and as he pulls his tomahawk out of the man�s back, more natives come into view behind him. He yells something in a foreign tongue. At that moment every native surges up the hill towards battle on the Heights.
�CHARGE!� I yell at the 49th. With masses of native warriors along side us, we stampede up the slope. I hear sounds of gunfire in the distance, coming closer. As I reach the clearing, I notice Sheaffe and his professional army waging war on the Americans. We gladly join the battle.
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When the battle is done and the Americans have retreated, I leave to Brock�s funeral. �We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of Major General Sir Isaac Brock,� announces the minister. �He was a brave soldier and a daring leader. He made preparations early and put them into action if the time comes. It was this quality that greatly helped us in this war. He was also a man who pushed on in the darkest moments, in the most pain-filled times, and when all hope seemed to be lost. He can teach us many lessons, and so he has.�
When the funeral finishes, the 49th is called to the government buildings in Upper Canada. When we arrive we are given medals of bravery and are given permission to return to England. I think, �This is just what Brock would have wanted.�
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