They were getting at close quarters now. The redan was less than fifty yards above.
He was calling to those nearest him to hold their fire a moment, to prepare to rush the enemy and use their bayonets, when, from a thorn thicket, an Ohio scout, Wilklow by name, one of Moseley's riflemen, stepped forward, and, singling out his victim, deliberately aimed at the General. Several of the 49th, noticing the man's movement, fired—but too late. The rifleman's bullet entered our hero's right breast, tore through his body on the left side, close to his heart, leaving a gaping wound.
Brock's Coat, worn at Queenston Heights
Brock sank slowly to the ground, quite sensible of his grievous fate. A grenadier, horribly mutilated, fell across him. To those who ran to aid our hero, anxious to know the nature of his injury, he murmured a few broken sentences and—turned to die.
He tried to frame messages to loved ones, and then, more audibly, as he gallantly strove to raise his head to give emphasis to his last faltering words—the same Isaac Brock, unmindful of self and still mindful of duty—he said, "My fall must not be noticed, nor impede my brave companions from advancing to victory."
And with a sigh—expired.