by Mark Zuehlke
Across the river, some militiamen had also taken shelter in Queenston, fearing that to go up the heights would cut them off from the boats in the event of a retreat. Captain Wool had been badly wounded during Macdonell’s attack, Solomon Van Rensselaer evacuated in an unconscious state. Brig. Gen. Stephen Van Rensselaer sent Lt. Col. Winfield Scott, the young Virginian officer who in a fit of patriotic fervour had taken a party of British sailors prisoner after the Chesapeake incident, to assume command. With Scott was a party of engineers to fortify the position on the heights, but their entrenching tools were left behind so there was little that could be done to prepare the position. Ammunition, water, and food were in short supply. After deducting casualties, the New Yorkers refusing to come out of the village, and pickets necessary to protect his flanks, Scott had 350 regulars and 250 militiamen to defend the heights.
He was still sizing up his defences when, at about three in the afternoon, Mohawk skirmishers struck the Americans from the west. Moments later an extended line of British and Canadian troops advanced out of the woods toward Scott’s left flank. Completely surprised, backs to the river, the Americans had no time to wheel about before Sheaffe halted his men. With brisk efficiency the soldiers shouldered their muskets, loosed a shattering volley, and then at Sheaffe’s command charged with fixed bayonets. Within seconds the Americans broke. Although Scott jumped up on a log to rally them with a dramatic harangue to turn about and redeem the honour lost by Hull’s surrender, he was ignored. Some fled the hill, hoping to reach the river and escape. A few hurled themselves off the cliffs, choosing to die that way rather than be scalped. Others huddled in a mass at the cliff edge, terrified that the Mohawks would murder them, until Scott signalled surrender by waving a white cravat.10
What should have been an easy American victory had turned into another disastrous defeat. Sheaffe’s troops rounded up 958 prisoners. More than 300 Americans were killed or wounded. British losses were only 14 killed, 77 wounded, and 21 missing for the entire one-day battle.11 But among the dead was Brock, and with his loss the British lost the man who could most effectively defend Canada.
When Van Rensselaer proposed a three-day armistice to allow for exchange of prisoners and burial of the dead, Sheaffe agreed because the prisoners taken outnumbered his regular troops. He resolved the problem by paroling the New York militiamen and keeping only regular officers and soldiers as prisoners. These were marched off to join Hull’s contingent in a camp near Quebec. Sheaffe would be awarded a baronetcy, while Brock had recently been raised to Knight of the Bath for the capture of Detroit—an honour he died unaware of.
Brock’s body was taken back to Government House in Niagara (now Niagara-on-the-Lake), a small village just north of Fort George, where it lay in state for three days. There then followed a funeral described by one attendee as “the grandest and most solemn that I have ever witnessed or that has been seen in Upper Canada.”12 The funeral was actually for two fallen commanders—Brock and Macdonell. Pallbearers carried their caskets between a double line of militia and Indians. The 5,000 militiamen stood solemnly with muskets reversed while several cannon fired a salute every minute during the course of the procession. Across the river, the batteries at both Fort Niagara and Lewiston thundered salvoes in honour of the fallen general. After the funeral, the two caskets were interred in a bastion deep inside Fort George.
The next day, the October 17 issue of the Kingston Gazette carried a fanciful account of Brock’s death that began the process that would transform soldier into mythical Canadian icon forever twinned with another myth born at Queenston Heights—that of the pre-eminent role played by the militia in repelling the invasion. Here was Brock in the midst of militiamen who were “ever obedient to his call, and whom [he] loved with the adoration of a father.” A Brock who fell in the midst of their ranks, his last dying words, “Push on brave York Volunteers.”13 Throughout Upper Canada the story was told, the legend recast and embellished until everyone—save perhaps the British regulars who fought at Queenston and buried their dead there—believed the militia carried the day. That Brock had considered them at best barely competent and had distrusted their loyalty was forgotten. Brock, an Englishman who desired nothing more than to quit North American service to seek glory on the European battlefields where careers were made, was quickly anointed a hero whom all Canadians, whether English, French, or American Loyalists, could claim as their own.
Previously English Canadians had esteemed Gen. James Wolfe, whose death on the Plains of Abraham during the pivotal battle that decided the outcome of the battle for Quebec in 1759 had elevated him to near-martyrdom both in English Canada and at home in Great Britain. But that same battle had claimed the life of Marquis Louis Joseph de Montcalm, commander of French forces in Canada, and signalled the end of New France. So Wolfe’s stature in Canada remained ambiguous, a hero only half of the colony could claim. Such was not the case for Brock.
His death and the Queenston Heights victory had another immediate outcome as the defeatist talk that had pervaded Upper Canada and the low turnout of volunteer militia dissipated. Sheaffe soon reported to Prevost that he was no longer plagued by militiamen leaving the field at the slightest excuse. Further, the militia serving in the Niagara area were “very alert at their several posts and continue generally to evince the best disposition.”14
This contrasted starkly with the situation south of the border, where the New York militia was almost in open rebellion. Predictably the outcome of the Battle of Queenston Heights had brought disgrace rather than accolades to the officers involved. At first Stephen Van Rensselaer attempted to shift the blame to others, including Smyth, who he maintained should have come to his aid. But the real culprits, the general reported to Secretary of War Dr. William Eustis, were the New York militiamen who refused to cross the river and cost Van Rensselaer the battle. “I can only add that the victory was really won, but lost for the want of a small reinforcement: one-third part of the idle men might have saved all.”15
His excuses mattered not; it was obvious the man’s military career was washed up. Realizing this, Van Rensselaer bowed to the inevitable and requested retirement rather than waiting to be relieved. General Dearborn readily accepted and then wrote a letter to the president placing responsibility for the failure squarely on the Dutchman’s shoulders. He then gave Gen. Alexander Smyth command of the Army of the Center. Smyth quickly purged the Federalist officers from the ranks and made a clumsy attempt to escape being subordinate to Dearborn. “Give me here a clear stage, men, and money, and I will retrieve your affairs or perish,” Smyth advised War Secretary Eustis. Recognizing Smyth’s intention in contacting him directly, Eustis icily replied: “You are too well acquainted with service to require to be informed that all communications respecting your command should be directed to that officer.”16
Despite the bluster, the defeat had shaken Smyth, and he faced the same problems Van Rensselaer had—the lack of enthusiasm that permeated the ranks of the New Yorkers. Smyth tried to bolster morale by issuing a proclamation that blamed the defeat on Van Rensselaer and the officers he had disposed of and assured that within days regular troops under his command would “plant the American standard in Canada.” But, he acknowledged, success would depend on the militiamen pitching in. “The present is the hour of renown,” Smyth declared. “Have you not a wish for fame? … Then seize the present moment; if you do not you will regret it and say: ‘The valiant have bled in vain, the friends of my country fell and I was not there.’
“Advance, then, to our aid. I will wait for a few days. I cannot give you the day of my departure, but come on. Come in companies, half companies, pairs or singly. I will organize you for a short tour.”17
The New Yorkers were in no mood to credit Smyth’s bluster. All about the Army of the Center was cracking at the seams. Having not been paid for weeks, two regular regiments mutinied. Hundreds of militiamen refused to obey orders until their barrack conditions were improved. Dysentery and
pneumonia were rampant in the ranks. There was a desperate shortage of meat rations, and winter clothing was entirely lacking while temperatures were dropping rapidly. Many—militia and regulars both—were barefoot. A group of barrack lawyers declared themselves spokesmen for the Men of New York and responded to Smyth’s appeal in writing. “Go, General, if you will. Should you ever reach the walls of Quebec … and when you fall, the men of New York will lament that folly has found new victims.”18
Realizing he could not take the offensive immediately, Smyth agreed to an indefinite extension of the armistice with the understanding that it could be cancelled by either party on thirty hour.’ notice. The American general then settled into writing more reports full of fiery pronouncements and drafting bold plans for definitive actions while Sheaffe turned his more practically inclined mind toward calling up more militia and strengthening the defences running across the breadth of the peninsula.19 It was a strange way to carry on a war, but the armistice suited each man’s purpose, and, as Smyth did not report its existence to Washington, President Madison remained unaware that the war on the Canadian front was effectively at a standstill.
ELEVEN
Opportunities for Usefulness
FALL 1812
The British government was even less aware of events in North America, for the most recent communiqué from Governor Sir George Prevost had reported only Hull’s surrender. Late summer had been a period of reorganization as Sir Henry Bathurst took the reins of secretary for war and the colonies, but by mid-September the man responsible for prosecution of both the war against France and this undesired conflict with America, in addition to most matters of colonial administration, had taken his desk at the War and Colonial Office. Despite being one of the world’s two most powerful nations and undisputed master of a far-flung empire, Britain had a distinctly small bureaucracy. Most offices directly serving the cabinet were clustered in cramped quarters between St. James’s Park and the Thames, making them convenient to the Houses of Parliament. The War and Colonial Office occupied a humble seventeenth-century house at No. 14 Downing Street, close to St. James’s Park and just a few doors from the prime minister’s No. 10 residence. Although prestigiously situated, the house was shabbily constructed, not only dark and drafty but usually damp because of a leaking basement that had to be regularly pumped dry. The offices were cramped and dreary.1
Scattered through the small, dank rooms was a modest staff that consisted of two undersecretaries, a chief clerk, nineteen clerks, a private secretary, a précis writer, a librarian, and several translators.2 In 1801, the war and colonial bureaucracies had been amalgamated because the two inextricably overlapped. Although the theory seemed sound, execution resulted in an office constantly bursting at the seams with files and paperwork while being inevitably short-staffed.
Tradition held that responsibility for ensuring each ministry operated efficiently rested with the minister. This meant that the minister was expected to personally handle all important matters. Furthermore, there was a clear division of function between the political men, such as Bathurst, and the permanent officials in the office, such as the undersecretaries. It fell to the minister to decide policy, which was modified only “in response to the criticism of colleagues in the Cabinet.”3 The permanent officials then implemented the policy, but generally played no major part in its development or in orchestrating modifications once policy met the test of reality.
Lord Liverpool’s cabinet was much inclined toward this traditional bureaucratic model because the prime minister was noted for “his assiduity as a man of business.”4 Liverpool was never given to standing back and letting others manage things. Rather, he was deeply involved in all important matters of state. Viscount Castlereagh was so similarly inclined that most dispatches emanating from Foreign Affairs were not only drafted by him but a product of his own hand.
Such exercise of control came at a price: a ministry’s effectiveness was limited by the ability of the minister to process its regular business while also developing sound policy in response to critically important issues or developments. The workload for ministers holding major portfolios was crushingly heavy, and this was particularly the case in 1812 for Castlereagh and Bathurst, for they were jointly responsible for the war with France and now the one with America. A workhorse, Castlereagh prided himself on mastery of every detail, so was as well suited for such great responsibility as anybody could have been. Bathurst’s abilities were less clear.
His early political appointments resulted from close friendship with William Pitt “the Younger” and his family’s record of government service dating back to the Restoration. His distinguished grandfather had served in the House of Lords after gaining a peerage in 1712, becoming privy councillor in 1742. His father, the 2nd Earl Bathurst, who bestowed his first given name on his eldest son at his birth on May 22, 1762, followed a legal path that resulted in his appointment as a judge of the Court of Common Pleas in 1754. From 1771 to 1778 he was Lord Chancellor. The younger Bathurst succeeded to the earldom when his father died in 1794. He was fifty when Lord Liverpool asked him on June 10, 1812, to become secretary for war and the colonies.
Contemporaries saw Bathurst’s appointment as a sign that the Liverpool administration was scraping the barrel for talent. His previous posts had been of an inconspicuous nature, requiring only pedestrian administrative skill. The ever-watchful Lady Harriet Arbuthnot thought him “a very bad minister for present times, he likes everything to go in the old way, likes a job for the sake of a job, not to get money into his own pocket for there cannot be a more disinterested man, but he hates all innovations.”5
While Bathurst figured among the true Tories, who disdained the emerging liberal economic theories, and was a devout High Church Anglican, he was more open to innovation than Lady Arbuthnot credited. Bathurst’s manner was his enemy, for he was self-effacing to a fault and too shy to be a competent public speaker. Like many shy men, Bathurst deflected attention with affable good humour, a light-hearted wit, endless anecdotes cast together in a seeming jumble, and a lack of apparent seriousness that left the impression of shallowness.
Bathurst’s true nature was exposed in his writing. Quill in hand, he scratched out words quickly and without hesitation. Thoughts were put down with assurance, almost never corrected. He seldom bothered writing a first draft. As his penmanship was easily read, Bathurst saw little point in giving his correspondence to a private secretary to transcribe. Also, awkward at formulating thoughts verbally, he avoided dictation.
On June 11, the day after his appointment, Bathurst threw himself with typical vigour into running No. 14 Downing Street. But it was in how he came at the job that Bathurst demonstrated an innovative trait. Quickly accepting that the vast responsibilities of the ministry were beyond the ability of any single person to competently master, Bathurst carefully delegated duties and responsibility to his staff—particularly the two undersecretaries.
In 1810, Castlereagh, then secretary for war and the colonies, had decided that although the ministry had been combined originally because of the interrelation of military and colonial issues, there should be some measure of specialization within the staff. He therefore created a War Department and a Colonial Department, each overseen by an undersecretary with his own staff. Bathurst refined matters, not just using the undersecretaries to implement his instructions but entrusting these men with responsibility in developing policy and determining the best response to immediate problems.
The War Department undersecretary was Maj. Gen. Sir Henry Bunbury, who had been undersecretary for the entire office from the time of his appointment in 1809 until Castlereagh’s reorganization. At that time Castlereagh brought in young Robert Peel to become Colonial Department undersecretary. Although this was Peel’s first political office, his needing only to focus on colonial matters rather than also juggling the prosecution of the war with France led to his performance being noted. When Liverpool formed his government, he appointed P
eel chief secretary for Ireland, creating an opening in the Colonial Department.
His replacement, Henry Goulburn, reported for duty on August 4. In two years time this young man, who was expected to be more intimately involved in details of the war’s prosecution than any other person in the British government, would be in Ghent treating with the Americans. Goulburn was tall and slim, with a mop of dark hair beginning to recede from the forehead, and his slender face was often set in a serious expression. As an infant, Goulburn had been the victim of a bizarre accident when his nurse sat on his head, leaving a permanent indentation in his skull and equally lasting vision damage to his right eye that rendered him slightly “cock-eyed.” This affliction, combined with his dour demeanour, led some to believe that he looked upon them with condescension and more than a touch of arrogance.
The young man’s grimly serious manner resulted from a life where the pleasures of a normal British upper-class childhood had been lost early. Goulburn had been but nine and the eldest of three children when his father, Munbee, died at age thirty-five. Born in Jamaica, Munbee Goulburn had been the only child of a sugar-plantation owner who had died six months after the boy’s birth. Sent to Eton for his education, Munbee had remained in England after graduation and married Susannah Chetwynd. Although Susannah’s family was of noble lineage, its link to landed property had been lost two generations earlier and her prospects for marriage were such that a young man boasting unencumbered title to an estate in Jamaica yielding an annual income of never less than £5,000 made an attractive match.
