It was the early springtime, and my history tells me the year was
1832, although now that seems so far away I almost hesitate to
write the date. It appears surprising that through the haze of all
those intervening years-intensely active years with me-I should now
be able to recall so clearly the scene of that far-off morning of
my youth, and depict in memory each minor detail. Yet, as you read
on, and realize yourself the stirring events resulting from that
idle moment, you may be able to comprehend the deep impression left
upon my mind, which no cycle of time could ever erase. I was barely
twenty then, a strong, almost headstrong boy, and the far
wilderness was still very new to me, although for two years past I
had held army commission and been assigned to duty in frontier
forts. Yet never previously had I been stationed at quite so
isolated an outpost of civilization as was this combination of rock
and log defense erected at the southern extremity of Rock Island,
fairly marooned amid the sweep of the great river, with
Indian-haunted land stretching for leagues on every side.
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