The Story of Isaac Brock | Page 6

obtaining his lieutenancy he returned to Guernsey, raised an
independent company, and exchanged into the 49th, the Royal
Berkshires, then stationed in Barbadoes. He now found himself looking
at life under new conditions. While the beauties of Barbadoes
enchanted him, his duties as a soldier were disappointing. They were
limited to drill, dress parade, guard mounting, the erection of new
fortifications, and patrolling the coast for vessels carrying prohibited
cargoes.

Under the terms of a treaty made at Paris in 1773, United States
produce for British West Indian ports could only be carried by British
subjects in British ships. Britain's men-of-war were also authorized to
seize any vessel laden with produce for or from any French colony.
Brock was a soldier, not a policeman, and coast-guard duties palled
upon him. His great diversion was in calculating the probabilities of
invasion by the French. In expectation of this, the refortifying of the
island was in progress. The memory of Admiral d'Estaing's visit with
his fleet from Toulon, and the capture of St. Vincent, sent a chill
through the island. The great victory by the British Admiral Rodney,
when he whipped a superior French fleet to a standstill, was yet to
come. Bastions and earthworks grew during the night like mushrooms.
While Brock chafed under restraint, he knew how to improve the
opportunity.
Fishing, shooting sea-fowl, and exploring the interior on horseback,
were Brock's chief pastimes. He became a fearless horseman. Mount
Hillaby rose 1,200 feet above the Caribbean Sea. The very crest of its
almost impossible pinnacle Brock is said to have ascended on
horseback. Between Bridgetown, in Barbadoes, and Kingston, Jamaica,
he divided his time, and though monotonous, his life in the Windward
Islands was not wholly void of adventure.
Shortly after joining his regiment at Bridgetown our hero had his first
affair of honour, an opportunity to display his courage under most
trying conditions. A certain captain in the 49th was a confirmed duellist,
with a reputation of being a dead shot at short range. Resting upon his
evil record, this braggart had succeeded in terrorizing the garrison, and
it was soon Brock's turn to be selected for insult. But Isaac could not be
bullied or intimidated. He promptly challenged and was as promptly
accepted.
The fateful morning arrived. In a lonely spot, palm-sheltered, and
within sight of the sea breaking upon the coral reefs, principals and
seconds met. There was no question in Brock's mind as to his duty--the
duello at that time was the recognized court of appeal. If its purpose as
originally designed had at times been infamously abused, it was still the

one and only arbiter through which insults had to be purged and from
which, for the "officer and gentleman," there was no escape.
Now Isaac, who was several inches taller and much bulkier than the
scoundrel who had insulted him, declined to become a shining mark at
the regulation twelve paces. He demanded from his fire-eating
antagonist that the duel proceed on equal terms. Whipping out his
kerchief, cool as a cucumber, his blue eyes steady and resolute, he
insisted that _they both fire across it_. The fairness of the proposal
staggered the bully. The chances were not sufficiently one-sided. If this
plan was acted upon he might himself be killed. He refused to comply.
The code of honour and garrison approval sustained Brock in his
contention, and the refusal of the professional killer to fight under even
chances was registered in the mess-room as the act of a coward, and he
left the regiment by compulsion.
In Jamaica the continued strain of inactivity under which our hero
fretted told upon him, and he was struck down with fever, his cousin,
Henry Brock, lieutenant in the 13th Foot, dying in Kingston of the
same pestilence. At this time Isaac had as servant a soldier named
Dobson, one of those faithful souls who, true as steel, once installed in
their master's affection, remain loyal to the end. To the untiring
attentions of this man Brock owed his life. Deep and mutual respect
followed, and the two became inseparable. Where Brock went, there
was Dobson, sharing his fortune and all the hard knocks of his military
campaigns, a fellowship ending only with Dobson's death, shortly
before his "beloved master" gave up his life on Queenston Heights.
Tropical malaria is hard to shake off. Release from duty was imperative,
and as England was now calling for recruits, the War Office summoned
Brock, an alluring sample of a soldier, to whom was assigned the task
of licking the fighting country bumpkin--the raw material--into shape.
This he did, first in England, then in Guernsey and Jersey. A vision of
our hero, glorious in his uniform, was in itself sufficient to ensnare the
senses of any country yokel. It was a