There are scenes that are hard to properly describe. There are parts
of our lives that can never be reproduced or transmitted to others
upon paper. As Father Abram J. Ryan, the Poet Priest of the South so
beautifully tells us:

"But far on the deep there are billows,
That never shall break on the beach;
And I have heard Songs in the Silence,
That never shall float into speech;
And I have had dreams in the Valley,
_Too lofty for language to reach."_

So with me and my story. However I may have succeeded so far in
expressing what I desired to convey to the public, I feel confident
that I am far from able to do justice to this last chapter. The events
crowd upon my mind in a sort of kaliedescope confusion and scarcely
have the intention of giving expression to an idea, than a hundred
others crop up to usurp its place in my mind. Although I will tell the
story of the tragic events as clearly and as truthfully as is
possible, still I know that years after this little sketch is printed,
I will remember incidents that now escape my memory. One has not time,
or inclination, when situated as I was, to take a cool survey of all
that passes and commit to memory every word that might be said or
remark that might be made. Notwithstanding the fear I have of leaving
out any points of interest or importance, I still imagine that my
simple narrative will prove sufficient to give an idea, imperfect
though it may be, of all the dangers we passed through, the sufferings
we underwent, and the hair-breadth escapes we had.