The Story of Isaac Brock | Page 7

militant age.
When quartered in Guernsey, and from the same heights of Jerbourg
where but a few years before he was wont to sweep the ocean for

belated fishing smacks, Brock saw his kinsman, Sir James Saumarez,
and the white canvas of a small squadron, heave in sight from
Plymouth Roads. The British sailor had been ordered to ascertain the
strength of the French fleet. Saumarez' ships were far slower than those
of the enemy, so, feigning the greatest desire to fight, he lured his
opponent by a clever ruse. First he closed with him, and then, when his
own capture seemed inevitable, hauled his wind, slipped through a
maze of reefs by an intricate passage--long familiar to our hero--and
found safety off La Vazon, where the Frenchmen dare not follow.
In June, 1795, Brock purchased his majority, but retained his command
of the recruits. From toes to finger-tips Isaac was a soldier, bent on
mastering every detail of the profession of his choice. A year after the
return of the 49th to England, on the completion of his 28th year, he
became by purchase senior lieutenant-colonel of his regiment. High
honour and rapid promotion, considering that for five out of seven
years' service he had remained an ensign. He had learned to recognize
opportunity, the earthly captain of a man's fate.
"For every day I stand outside your door, And bid you wake and rise to
fight and win."
But Brock's position was no sinecure. The regiment was in a badly
demoralized condition. The laxity of the late commanding officer had
created a deplorable state of things. To restore the lost morale of the
corps was his first duty. The thoroughness of his reforms can be best
understood by quoting the words of the Duke of York, who declared
that "out of one of the worst regiments in the service Colonel Brock
had made the 49th one of the best."
From the Commander-in-Chief of a nation's army to a colonel--not yet
thirty--of a marching regiment, this was an exceptional tribute.
Isaac's persistent endeavours were rapidly bringing their own reward.
[Illustration: NAVY HALL, REMNANT OF THE OLD "RED
BARRACKS," NIAGARA, 1797]

CHAPTER IV.
EGMONT-OP-ZEE AND COPENHAGEN.
Meanwhile the war cloud in Europe was growing apace. Holland had
been forced into an alliance with France. War, no longer a spectre, but
a grim monster, stalked the Continent. Everywhere the hostile arts of
Bonaparte were rousing the nations. The breezes that had stirred the
marshes of Havelet and awakened in Brock a sense of impending
danger, now a furious gale, swept the empires. The roll of drums and
roar of cannon that Isaac had listened to in his boyhood dreams were
now challenging in deadly earnest. The great reveille that was
awakening the world was followed by the British buglers calling to
arms the soldiers of the King.
Notwithstanding the aversion of the English prime minister, Pitt, to
commence hostilities, war was unavoidable. One of the twelve
battalions of infantry selected for the front was the 49th. When the
orders were read for the regiment to join the expedition to Holland,
wild excitement prevailed in barracks. Active service had come at last.
The parting of Brock with his family was softened by maternal pride in
his appearance.
The tunic of the 49th was scarlet, with short swallow-tails. The rolling
lapels were faced with green, the coat being laced with white, with a
high collar. The shako, which was originally surmounted by white
feathers with black tips, a distinction for services in the American war
of 1776, at Bunker's Hill and Brandywine, was, at Brock's special
request, replaced by a black plume. The officers wore their hair turned
up behind and fastened with a black "flash." The spectacle of Master
Isaac thus arrayed, in all the glory of epaulets and sabretache and the
gold braid of a full colonel, reconciled the inhabitants of St. Peter's Port
to his departure.
By the end of August the first division of the British army, of which the
49th was a unit, was aboard the transports in the Zuyder Zee, off the
coast of Holland, and early one morning, under the command of Sir

Ralph Abercrombie, with blare of trumpets and standards flying, they
effected a landing under the guns of the ships of the line, of which, with
frigates and sloops, there were well-nigh sixty. Brock had often listened
to the roar of shot and shell in target practice and sham fight, but of a
cannonade of artillery, where every shrieking cannon-ball was probably
a winged messenger of death, this was his first experience. He now
learned that in the music of the empty shell of experiment and the
wicked screech of the missiles of war there was an unpleasant
difference. He did not wince, but sternly drew himself