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 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,