MISCHIEVOUS ANDY

“Set the case! You are Shauney Kerr’s mare, and me Billy Buck. And I should mount you, and you should kick, fall, fling, and break your neck, should I be to blame for that?”

Imagine this gibberish, roared out by a sandy-haired boy, as he came leaping from the door of a log-schoolhouse, ready to defy all the other boys to a race, a wrestle, or a jumping match, while he playfully laid sprawling as many of his friends as he could trip unawares.

There you have Andy Jackson!

Andy, tall, lank, red-headed, blue-eyed, freckled, barefoot, and dressed in coarse copperas-coloured clothes, was the son of a poor Scotch Irish widow. He was born and reared in the Carolinas. He lived with his mother in the Waxhaws Settlement. His home was a log-cabin in a clearing.

His mother earned her living and that of her two youngest boys. She had great ambitions for Andy. She sent him to school in the little log-schoolhouse. And, when she had earned enough money, she paid his tuition at a country academy.

No boy ever lived who liked fun better than Andy. He ran foot-races, leaped the bar, and high-jumped. To the younger boys, who never questioned his mastery, he was a generous protector. There was nothing he would not do to defend them.

But boys of his own age and older, found him self-willed, somewhat overbearing, easily offended, very irascible, and on the whole difficult to get along with.

He learned to read, write, and cast accounts—little more.

James Parton (Retold)

READING THE DECLARATION

Andy was nine years old when the Declaration of Independence was signed at Philadelphia.

In August, some one brought a Philadelphia newspaper to the Waxhaws. It contained a portion of the Declaration. A crowd of Waxhaw Patriots gathered in front of the country store owned by Andy’s Uncle Crawford. They were eager to hear the Declaration read aloud. Andy was chosen to read it.

He did so proudly in a shrill, penetrating voice. He read the whole thing through without once stopping to spell out the words. And that was more than many of the grown men of the Waxhaws could do in those pioneer days, when frontier log-schoolhouses were few and far between.

OUT AGAINST TARLETON

Andrew Jackson was little more than thirteen, when the British Tarleton with his dragoons, thundered along the red roads of the Waxhaws, and dyed them a deeper red with the blood of the surprised Patriot Militia. For Tarleton fell upon the Waxhaws settlement, and killed one hundred and thirteen of the Militia, and wounded a hundred and fifty more.

The wounded men were abandoned to the care of the settlers, and quartered in the cabins, and in the old log Waxhaw meeting-house, which was turned into a hospital.

Andrew’s mother was one of the kind women who nursed the soldiers in the meeting-house. Andrew and his brother Robert assisted her in waiting upon them. Andrew, more in rage than pity, though pitiful by nature, burned to avenge their wounds and his brother’s death. For his eldest brother, Hugh, had mounted his horse the year before, and ridden southward to join the Patriot forces. He had fought gallantly, and had died bravely.

Tarleton’s massacre at the Waxhaws, had kindled the flames of war in all that region of the Carolinas. The time was now come when Andrew and Robert were to play men’s parts. Carrying their own weapons, they mounted their grass ponies—ponies of the South Carolina swamps, rough, Shetlandish, wild—and rode away to join the patriots.

Andrew and Robert served in a number of actions, and were finally taken captive.

They were at length rescued by their mother. This heroic woman arrived at their prison, and by her efforts and entreaties, succeeded in bringing about an exchange of prisoners.

Andrew and Robert were brought out of prison and handed over to her. She gazed at them in astonishment and horror,—so worn and wasted the boys were with hunger, wounds, and disease. They were both ill with the smallpox. Robert could not stand, nor even sit on horseback without support.

Two horses were procured. One, Mrs. Jackson rode herself. Robert was placed on the other, and held in his seat by some of the prisoners to whom Mrs. Jackson had just given liberty.

Behind the sad procession poor Andrew dragged his weak and weary limbs, bare-headed, bare-footed, without a jacket, his only two garments torn and dirty.

The forty miles of lonely wilderness to the Waxhaws were nearly traversed, and the fevered boys were expecting in two hours more, to enjoy the comfort of home, when a chilly, drenching rain set in. The smallpox had reached that stage when a violent chill proves wellnigh fatal. The boys reached home and went to bed.

In two days Robert Jackson was dead, while Andrew was a raving maniac. But the mother’s nursing and his own strong constitution brought Andrew out of his peril, and set him on the way to slow recovery.

James Parton (Retold)

AN ORPHAN OF THE REVOLUTION

Andrew Jackson was no sooner out of danger, than his courageous mother resolved to go to Charleston, a distance of nearly two hundred miles, and do what she could for the comfort of the prisoners confined on the reeking, disease-infested prison-ships.

Among the many captives on the ships, suffering hunger, sickness, and neglect, were Mrs. Jackson’s own nephews and some of her Waxhaw neighbours. She hoped to obtain their release, as she had that of Andy and Robert.

She arrived at Charleston, and gained admission to the ships. She distributed food and medicines, and brought much comfort and joy to the haggard prisoners.

She had been there but a little time when she was seized by ship-fever. After a short illness she died. She was buried on the open plain, and her grave was lost sight of. Her clothes, a sorry bundle, were sent to her boy at the Waxhaws.

And so Andrew Jackson, before reaching his fifteenth birthday had lost his father, mother, and two brothers. He was an orphan, a sick and sorrowful orphan, a homeless orphan, an orphan of the Revolution.

Many years later on his birthday, on the very same day when he disbanded the Army with which he had won the Battle of New Orleans, he said of his mother:—

“How I wish she could have lived to see this day! There never was a woman like her. She was gentle as a dove and brave as a lioness....

“Her last words have been the law of my life. When the tidings of her death reached me, I at first could not believe it. When I finally realized the truth, I felt utterly alone.... Yes, I was alone. With that feeling, I started to make my own way....

“The memory of my Mother and her teachings, were after all the only capital I had to start in life with, and on that capital I have made my way.”

James Parton and Other Sources.

THE HOOTING IN THE WILDERNESS

It was night in the Tennessee Wilderness. A train of settlers from the Carolinas, with four-wheeled ox-carts and pack-horses, and attended by an armed guard, was winding its way along the trail through the forest toward the frontier-town of Nashville. They had marched thirty-six hours, a night and two days, without stopping to rest. They were keeping a vigilant outlook for savages.

At length, they reached what they thought was a safe camping-ground. The tired travellers hastened to encamp. Their little tents were pitched. Their fires were lighted. The exhausted women and children crept into the tents, and fell asleep.

The men, except those who were to stand sentinel during the first half of the night, wrapped their blankets around them and lay down under the lee of sheltering logs with their feet to the fire.

Silence fell on the camp.

All slept except the sentinels and one young man. He sat with his back to a tree, smoking a corn-cob pipe. He was not handsome; but the direct glance of his keen blue eye and his resolute expression, made him seem so in spite of a long thin face, high forehead somewhat narrow, and sandy-red hair falling low on his brow.

This young man was Andrew Jackson,—mischievous Andy of the Waxhaws,—now grown to be a clever, licensed, young lawyer. He was going with the emigrant train to Nashville in order to hang out his sign and practise on the frontier.

He sat there in the Wilderness, in the darkness, peacefully smoking. He listened to the night sounds from the forest. He was falling into a doze, when he noted the various hoots of owls in the forest around him.

“A remarkable country this, for owls,” he thought, as he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Just then an owl, whose hooting had sounded at a distance, suddenly uttered a peculiar cry close to the camp.

In a moment, young Jackson was the widest awake man in Tennessee.

He grasped his rifle, and crept cautiously to where his friend Searcy was sleeping, and woke him quietly.

“Searcy,” said he, “raise your head and make no noise.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Searcy.

“The owls—listen—there—there again! Isn’t that a little too natural?”

“Do you think so?” asked Searcy.

“I know it,” replied young Jackson. “There are Indians all around us. I have heard them in every direction. They mean to attack before daybreak.”

In a few minutes, the men of the camp were aroused. The experienced woodsmen among them listened to the hooting, and agreed with young Jackson, that there were Indians in the forest. Jackson advised that the camp should be instantly and quietly broken up, and the march resumed.

This was done, and the company heard nothing more of the savages.

But a party of hunters who reached the same camping-ground an hour after the company had left it, lay down by the fires and slept. Before day dawned, the Indians were upon them, and killed all except one of the party.

But the long train of emigrants, men, women and children, were safely continuing their wearisome journey through the Wilderness. At last, they reached Nashville to the joy of the settlers there.

And a great piece of news young Andrew Jackson brought with him to Nashville—the Constitution of the United States had just been ratified and adopted by a majority of the States of the Union.

James Parton (Retold)

FORT MIMS

The War of 1812 was made terrible by an uprising of the Indians. The Creeks, incited and armed by British officers, attacked Fort Mims in Alabama, and, with unspeakable atrocities, massacred over five hundred helpless men, women, and children.

The howling savages at their bloody work made so hideous a scene, that even their Chief, a half-breed Indian named Weatherford, was filled with horror. He tried to protect the women and children. But his savage followers broke all restraint, and nothing could stop their cruel butchery. The Creeks ended by setting fire to the ruins of the fort.

This Indian massacre at Fort Mims was one of the bloodiest in history.

The news reached Tennessee, arousing the country. Andrew Jackson rose from a sick-bed, called together an army of volunteers, and led them against the Creeks.

DAVY CROCKETT
“Go ahead!” Davy Crockett’s motto

When Andrew Jackson called for volunteers to punish the Creeks, Davy Crockett, the famous Tennessee bear-hunter, came hurrying to enlist. He was a backwoodsman, born and reared in a log cabin in the Wilderness.

Armed with his long rifle and hunting-knife, dressed in a hunting-shirt and fox-skin cap with the tail hanging down behind, he was a picturesque figure.

He was merry as well as fearless, and kept the soldiers in a constant roar of laughter with his jokes and funny stories. He was kind-hearted, and gave away his money to any soldier who needed it.

“Go ahead!” was his motto whenever facing difficulty or dangers.

Some years after the Creek War, he took part in the struggle for Liberty in Texas.

With Travis and Bowie, he defended the Alamo.

“Go ahead! Liberty and Independence for ever!” wrote Davy Crockett in his diary just before the Alamo fell.

CHIEF WEATHERFORD

Andrew Jackson carried forward his Indian campaign with crushing effect. Blow after blow fell upon the doomed Creeks, and at the Battle of the Horseshoe, he annihilated their power for ever.

The Creeks were conquered; but their Chief, Weatherford, was still at large. Andrew Jackson gave orders for his pursuit and capture. He wished to punish him for his part in the massacre at Fort Mims.

The Creek force under Weatherford had melted away. The warriors who were left after the battle, had taken flight to a place of safety, leaving him alone in the forest with a multitude of Indian women and children, widows and orphans, perishing for want of food.

It was then that Weatherford gave a shining example of humanity and heroism. He might have fled to safety with the rest of his war-party. He chose to remain and to attempt, at the sacrifice of his own life, to save from starvation the women and children who were with him.

He mounted his gray steed, and directed his course to General Jackson’s camp. When only a few miles from there, a fine deer crossed his path and stopped within shooting distance. Weatherford shot the deer and placed it on his horse behind the saddle.

Reloading his rifle with two balls, for the purpose of shooting Big Warrior, a leading Chief friendly to the Americans, if he gave him any trouble, Weatherford rode on. He soon reached the outposts of the camp. He politely inquired of a group of soldiers where General Jackson was. An old man pointed out the General’s tent, and the fearless Chief rode up to it.

Before the entrance of the tent sat Big Warrior himself. Seeing Weatherford, he cried out in an insulting tone:—

“Ah! Bill Weatherford, have we got you at last?”

With a glance of fire at Big Warrior, Weatherford replied with an oath:—

“Traitor! if you give me any insolence, I will blow a ball through your cowardly heart!”

General Jackson now came running out of the tent.

“How dare you,” exclaimed the General furiously, “ride up to my tent after having murdered the women and children at Fort Mims?”

“General Jackson,” replied Weatherford with dignity, “I am not afraid of you. I fear no man, for I am a Creek warrior.

“I have nothing to request in behalf of myself. You can kill me if you desire. But I come to beg you to send for the women and children of the war-party, who are now starving in the woods. Their fields and cribs have been destroyed by your people, who have driven them to the woods without an ear of corn. I hope that you will send out parties who will conduct them safely here, in order that they may be fed.

“I exerted myself in vain to prevent the massacre of the women and children at Fort Mims. I am now done fighting. The Red Sticks are nearly all killed. If I could fight you any longer, I would most heartily do so.

“Send for the women and children. They never did you any harm. But kill me, if the white people want it done.”

While he was speaking, a crowd of officers and soldiers gathered around the tent. Associating the name of Weatherford with the oft-told horrors of the massacre, and not understanding what was going forward, the soldiers cast upon the Chief glances of hatred and aversion. Many of them cried out:—

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”

“Silence!” exclaimed Jackson.

And the clamour was hushed.

“Any man,” added the General, with great energy, “who would kill as brave a man as this, would rob the dead!”

He then requested Weatherford to alight, and enter his tent. Which the Chief did, bringing in with him the deer he had killed by the way, and presenting it to the General.

Jackson accepted the gift, and invited Weatherford to drink a glass of brandy. But Weatherford refused to drink, saying:—

“General, I am one of the few Indians who do not drink liquor. But I would thank you for a little tobacco.”

Jackson gave him some tobacco, and they then discussed terms of peace. Weatherford explained that he wished peace, in order that his Nation might be relieved of their sufferings and the women and children saved.

“If you wish to continue the war,” said General Jackson, “you are at liberty to depart unharmed; but if you desire peace you may remain, and you shall be protected.”

And as Weatherford desired peace, General Jackson sent for the women and children and had them fed and cared for.

When the war was over, Weatherford again became a planter, for he had been a prosperous one before he led his Nation, the Creeks, on the war-path.

He lived many years in peace with white men and red, respected by his neighbours for his bravery, honour, and good native common-sense.

To the day of his death, Weatherford deeply regretted the massacre at Fort Mims. “My warriors,” said he, “were like famished wolves. And the first taste of blood made their appetites insatiable.”

James Parton and Other Stories.

SAM HOUSTON

Years before the fall of the Alamo, during the Creek War, at the Battle of the Horseshoe, Andrew Jackson had just given the order for a part of his troops to charge the Indian breastwork. The troops rushed forward with loud shouts.

The first in that rush was a young Lieutenant, Sam Houston.[5] As he led the way across the breastwork, a barbed arrow struck deep into his thigh. He tried to pull it out, but could not. He called to an officer, and asked him to draw it out.

The officer tugged at its shaft twice, but failed.

“Try again!” shouted Sam Houston, lifting his sword, “and if you fail this time, I will smite you to the earth!”

The officer, with a desperate effort, pulled out the arrow. A stream of blood gushed from the wound. Sam Houston recrossed the breastwork to the rear, to have it dressed.

A surgeon dressed it and staunched the flow of blood. Just then Andrew Jackson rode up to see who was wounded. Recognizing his daring lieutenant, he forbade him to return to the fight.

Under any other circumstances, Sam Houston would have obeyed without a word. But now he begged the General to allow him to go back to his men. General Jackson ordered him most peremptorily not to cross the breastwork again.

But Sam Houston was determined to die in that battle or win fame for ever. And soon after, when General Jackson called for volunteers to storm a ravine, Sam Houston rushed into the thick of the fight, and the next minute he was leading on his men. He received two rifle-balls in his right shoulder, and his left arm fell shattered at his side. At last, exhausted by the loss of blood he dropped to the ground.

He eventually recovered; and the military prowess and heroism which he had displayed throughout this battle, secured for him the lasting regard of Old Hickory.

Retold from the “Life of Sam Houston”

WHY JACKSON WAS NAMED OLD HICKORY

When Andrew Jackson, with his Tennessee riflemen, was camping at Natchez waiting for orders to move on to New Orleans, he received a despatch from the War Department. It ordered him to dismiss his men at once.

Jackson’s indignation and rage knew no bounds. Dismiss them without pay, without means of transportation, without provision for the sick! Never! He himself would march them home again through the savage Wilderness, at his own expense! Such was his determination.

And when his little Army set out from Natchez for its march of five hundred miles through the Wilderness, there were a hundred and fifty men on the sick-list, of whom fifty-six could not raise their heads from the pillow. There were but eleven wagons to convey them. The most desperately ill were placed in the wagons. The rest of the sick were mounted on the horses of the officers.

General Jackson had three fine horses, and gave them up to the sick, himself briskly trudging on foot. Day after day, he tramped gayly along the miry roads, never tired, and always ready with a cheering word for others.

They marched with extraordinary speed, averaging eighteen miles a day, and performing the whole journey in less than a month. And yet the sick men rapidly recovered under the reviving influence of a homeward march.

“Where am I?” asked one young fellow who had been lifted to his place in a wagon, when insensible and apparently dying.

“On your way home!” cried the General merrily.

And the young soldier began to improve from that hour, and reached home in good health.

Many of the volunteers had heard so much of Jackson’s violent and hasty temper, that they had joined the corps with a certain dread and hesitation, fearing not the enemy, nor the marches, nor diseases and wounds, so much as the swift wrath of their Commander. How surprised were they to find, that though there was a whole volcano of wrath in their General, yet to the men of his command, so long as they did their duty and longer, he was the most gentle, patient, considerate, and generous of friends.

It was on this homeward march that the nickname of Old Hickory was bestowed upon Andrew Jackson by his men. First of all the remark was made by a soldier, who was struck with his wonderful pedestrian powers, that the General was tough. Next it was observed of him that he was as tough as hickory. Then he was called Hickory. Lastly the affectionate adjective old was prefixed. And ever after he was known as Old Hickory.

James Parton (Retold)

THE COTTON-BALES

We have all heard tell that Andrew Jackson and his riflemen fought the Battle of New Orleans from behind cotton-bales.

This is a mistake. Yet it is true that Old Hickory did commandeer a whole cargo of cotton-bales, and with them built a bastion in front of his guns. But at the very first bombardment, the balls from the British batteries knocked the bales in all directions, while wads from the American guns and spurting flames from the muzzles of the rifles set some of the bales afire. They fell smouldering into the ditch outside, and lay there sending up smoke and choking odours.

When the bombardment was over, the American soldiers dragged the unburnt cotton-bales to the rear. They cut them open and used the layers of cotton for beds.

AFTER THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS

The British troops had retreated before the savage crackling of the Tennessee and Kentucky rifles. The American artillery, which had continued to play upon the British batteries, ceased their fire for the guns to cool and the dense smoke to roll away.

The whole American Army crowded in triumph to the parapet, and looked over into the field.

What a scene was gradually disclosed to them! The plain was covered and heaped with the British dead and wounded. The American soldiers, to their credit be it repeated, were appalled and silenced at the sight before them.

Dressed in their gay uniforms, cleanly shaven and attired for the promised victory and triumphal entry into New Orleans, these stalwart men lay on the gory field frightful examples of the horrors of war. Strangely did they contrast with those ragged, begrimed, long-haired pioneer men who, crowding the American parapet, stood surveying the destruction their long-rifles had caused.

On the edge of the woods, there were many British soldiers who, being slightly wounded, had concealed themselves under brush and in the trees. And it was pitiable to hear the cries for help and water that arose from every quarter of the field.

As the Americans gazed on this scene of desolation and suffering, a profound and melancholy silence pervaded the Army. No sounds of exultation or rejoicing were heard. Pity and sympathy had succeeded to the boisterous and savage feelings which a few minutes before had possessed their souls.

Many of the Americans stole without leave from their positions, and with their canteens gave water to the dying, and assisted the wounded. Those of their enemy who could walk, the Americans led into the lines, where they received attention from Jackson’s medical staff. Others, who were desperately wounded, the Americans carried into camp on their backs.

Jackson sent a message to New Orleans to despatch all the carts and vehicles to the lines. Late in the day, a long procession of these carts was seen slowly winding its way along the levee from the field of battle. They contained the British wounded.

The citizens of New Orleans, men and women, pressed forward to tender every aid to their suffering enemies. By private subscription, the citizens supplied mattresses and pillows, lint and old linen; all of which articles were then exceedingly scarce in the city. Women-nurses cared for the British, and watched at their bedsides night and day. Several of the officers, who were grievously wounded, were taken to private residences and there provided with every comfort.

Such acts as these ennoble humanity, and soften the horrors of war.

James Parton (Retold)