The supreme effort must be made.
Glancing below, Brock, even at that instant, for a fleeting moment was conscious of the beauty of the country spread beneath him. Almost as far as eye could reach extended an immense, partly pastoral plain, studded with villages, groves, winding streams, cultivated farms, orchards, vineyards and meadows. In places a dense forest, decorated with autumn's mellow tints, and furrowed by the black gorge of the Niagara, stretched to the horizon. Across all, shadows of racing clouds gave emphasis to the brilliant flood of sunshine. No fairer scene ever greeted the eye of man. The entire landscape breathed peace. Above it, however, in detached masses, hung lurid billows—the smoke of battle.... The serene vision faded, and in its place, in brutal contrast, came cruel, imperious bugle calls, the metallic rattle of fire-arms, the deep thunder of artillery, the curdling cry of wounded men.
Isaac's senses were insulted by the carnage of war.
He now noticed that the supports, led by his plucky aide at the foot of the hill, were flagging. He shouted back, "Push on, York Volunteers!"
Our hero's robust figure was a conspicuous object for the American riflemen. While telling his men to take advantage of every bit of shelter, he paid little attention to himself. His uniform, his position at the head of his men, his loud words of command, stamped him a man of mark, a soldier of distinction, a special target for Wool's sharpshooters.
So far he had escaped the hail of shot by a miracle. Picking his footsteps—it was treadmill work—he sprang forward, urging on his men by word and gesture.
A deflected bullet struck the wrist of his sword arm. The wound was slight. He again waved his sword, smiling his indifference and still speaking words of encouragement.