In his full-dress red and gold, with the arrow-patterned
sash Tecumseh had given him as a badge of honour at
Detroit, he looked, from plume to spur, a hero who could
turn the tide of battle against any odds. A ringing cheer
broke out in greeting. But he paused no longer than just
enough to wave a greeting back and take a quick look
round before scaling the Heights to where eight gunners
with their single eighteen-pounder were making a desperate
effort to check the Americans at the landing-place. Here
he dismounted to survey the whole scene of action. The
Americans attacking Queenston seemed to be at least twice
as strong as the British. The artillery odds were twelve
to one. And over two thousand Americans were drawn up on
the farther side of the narrow Niagara waiting their turn
for the boats. Nevertheless, the British seemed to be
holding their own. The crucial question was: could they
hold it till Sheaffe came up from Fort George, till
Bullock came down from Chippawa, till both had formed
front on the Heights, with Indians on their flanks and
artillery support from below?

Suddenly a loud, exultant cheer sounded straight behind
him, a crackling fire broke out, and he saw Wool's
Americans coming over the crest and making straight for
the gun. He was astounded; and well he might be, since
the fisherman's path had been reported impassable by
troops. But he instantly changed the order he happened
to be giving from 'Try a longer fuse!' to 'Spike the gun
and follow me!' With a sharp clang the spike went home,
and the gunners followed Brock downhill towards Queenston.