II The Trail to Ottawa

The Devil's Own

CHAPTER I

AT OLD FORT ARMSTRONG

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. A mere handful of troops was quartered there,
technically two companies of infantry, yet numbering barely enough for
one; and this in spite of rumors daily drifting to us that the Sacs and
Foxes, with their main village just below, were already becoming
restless and warlike, inflamed by the slow approach of white settlers
into the valley of the Rock. Indeed, so short was the garrison of
officers, that the harassed commander had ventured to retain me for
field service, in spite of the fact that I was detailed to staff duty,
had borne dispatches up the Mississippi from General Gaines, and
expected to return again by the first boat.

The morning was one of deep-blue sky and bright sunshine, the soft
spring air vocal with the song of birds. As soon as early drill ended
I had left the fort-enclosure, and sought a lonely perch on the great
rock above the mouth of the cave. It was a spot I loved. Below,
extended a magnificent vista of the river, fully a mile wide from shore
to shore, spreading out in a sheet of glittering silver, unbroken in
its vast sweep toward the sea except for a few small, willow-studded
islands a mile or two away, with here and there the black dot of an
Indian canoe gliding across the surface. I had been told of a fight
amid tho