Fifteenth August, 1812. My hand trembles and my pen halts as I write the words; for the memory of those tragic hours, far distant as they are now, over masters me, and I see once again the faces of the dead, the mutilated forms, the disfigured features of the hapless victims of savage treachery. Were I writing romance merely, I might hide much of detail behind the veil of silence; but I am penning history, and, black as the record is, I can only give it with strict adherence to truth. I dread the effort to recall once more the sad incidents of that scene of carnage, lest I fail to picture it aright; but I can tell, and that poorly, only of what I saw within the narrowed vista of my personal experience, where the fate of the day found me. Out of the vortex of so fierce and sudden a struggle, the individual, battling madly for his own life, catches but hasty and confused glimpses of what others may do about him or in other portions of the field; and there has been much recorded in what men call the history of that day's battle, about which I know nothing. Nor shall I attempt to tell much more than the simple story of what befell me and those who faced the danger close at my side. In spite of the early bustle around me, incident to the preparations for departure, I slept late, stupefied by intense fatigue. The sun was already high, painting with gold the interior of the western wall of the stockade, when some unusual disturbance aroused me, so that I sat up and looked about, scarce realizing for the moment where I was. The parade was alive with moving figures; and I instantly marked the cheery look on the faces of those nearest me, as if the entire garrison rejoiced that the hour for departure had at last arrived. The northern half of the little open space was filled with loaded wagons of every description, to which horses, mules, and even oxen, were being rapidly hitched; while women and children were clambering in over the wheels, perching themselves upon the heaps of camp accoutrements, and rolling up the canvas coverings in order that they might the better see out and feel the soft refreshment of the morning air. The officers of the post were moving here and there among the throng of workers, grave of face, yet making no effort to curb the unusual gaiety of the enlisted men. For the time, all reins of discipline seemed relaxed. The few settlers and plainsmen who had gathered within the Fort for protection looked on stolidly, either lying in the shade of the log wall or lounging beside their horses already equipped for the trail; while the Miamis were gathered restlessly about their breakfast fires, their faces unexpressive of emotion, as usual, although many among them had blackened their cheeks in expectation of disaster.