The incident recorded in the preceding chapter occurred in June, 1827, and in the autumn of the same year two companies of our command were ordered to Prairie du Chien to strengthen the garrison there, in anticipation of trouble with the Indians. One of these was Company "C", commanded by our father; the other company was in command of Captain Scott.

We had become so attached to a home so filled with peculiar and very tender associations that our hearts were sad indeed when we bade "good bye" to all, and from the deck of the steamer took our last look at the beloved fort where we had lived so many years. In later years when passing the spot where we bade farewell to the flag which floated over headquarters on that bright morning long ago, I involuntarily look up at the beautiful banner still waving there, and a tender, reverential awe steals over me, as when standing by the grave of a friend long buried.

We had hardly been a year at Fort Crawford when my father was detailed on recruiting service, and ordered to Nashville, Tennessee. This was in 1828, memorable as the year of the presidential campaign which resulted in the election to that high office of General Andrew Jackson. When our friend Mr. Parton was writing his "Life of Jackson," I gave him, at his request, my impressions as a child, of the great man, with whom we were daily and intimately associated, and now transfer those impressions from that great work, "Parton's Life of Jackson," to the pages of this unpretentious record of past times.

At the time referred to, our family boarded at the "Nashville Inn," kept by a Mr. Edmonson, the home of all the military officers whom duty or pleasure called to Nashville. It had also been for a long time the stopping place of General Jackson and his wife, whenever they left their beloved "Hermitage" for a temporary sojourn in the city. Eating at the same table with persons who attracted so much attention, and meeting them familiarly in the public and private sitting rooms of the hotel, I of course felt well acquainted with them, and my recollections of them are very vivid even now. The General's appearance has been so often and correctly described that it would seem almost unnecessary to touch upon it here; but it will do no harm to give my impressions of him.

Picture to yourself a military-looking man, above the ordinary height, dressed plainly, but with great neatness; dignified and grave—I had almost said stern, but always courteous and affable; with keen, searching eyes, iron-gray hair standing stiffly up from an expansive forehead; a face somewhat furrowed by care and time, and expressive of deep thought and active intellect, and you have before you the General Jackson who has lived in my memory from my childhood. Side by side with him stands a coarse-looking, stout little old woman, whom you might easily mistake for his washerwoman, were it not for the marked attention he pays her, and the love and admiration she manifests for him. Her eyes are bright, and express great kindness of heart; her face is rather broad, her features plain, her complexion so dark as almost to suggest a mingling of races in that climate where such things sometimes occur. But withal, her face is so good natured and motherly, that you immediately feel at ease with her, however shy you may be of the stately person by her side. Her figure is rather full, but loosely and carelessly dressed, with no regard to the fashions of the day, so that, when she is seated, she seems to settle into herself, in a manner that is neither graceful nor elegant. I have seen such forms since, and have thought I should like to experiment upon them with French corsets, to see what they would look like if they were gathered into some permanent shape. This is Mrs. Jackson. I have heard my mother say, she could imagine that in her early youth, at the time the General yielded to her fascinations, she may have been a bright, sparkling brunette, perhaps may have even passed for a beauty; but being without any culture, and out of the way of refining influences, she was at the time we knew her, such as I have described. Their affection for each other was of the tenderest kind. The General always treated her as if she was his pride and glory, and words can faintly describe her devotion to him. The "Nashville Inn" was at this time filled with celebrities, nearly all warm supporters of the General. The Stokes family, of North Carolina, were there, particular friends of his; the Blackburns, and many other old families, whose names have escaped my memory. I well recollect to what disadvantage Mrs. Jackson appeared, with her dowdyfied figure, her inelegant conversation, and her total want of refinement, in the midst of this bevy of highly-cultivated, aristocratic women; and I recall very distinctly how the ladies of the Jackson party hovered near her at all times, apparently to save her from saying or doing anything which might do discredit to their idol. With all her disadvantages in externals, I know she was really beloved. She was a truly good woman, the very soul of benevolence and kindness, and one almost overlooked her deficiencies in the knowledge of her intrinsic worth and her real goodness of heart. With a different husband, and under different circumstances, she might have appeared to greater advantage, but there could not be a more striking contrast than was manifest in this dignified, grand-looking man and this plain, common-looking little woman. And the strangest of it all was, the General did not seem at all aware of it. She was his ideal of every thing that was good, and loving, and true, and, utterly unconscious of any external deficiencies, he yielded her the entire homage of his own brave, loyal heart. My father visited them more than once at the Hermitage. It was customary for the officers of the army to do this, as a mark of respect to the General, and they frequently remained at their hospitable mansion several days at a time. The latch-string was always out, and all who visited them were made welcome, and felt themselves at home.

An anecdote which my father told us, characteristic of Mrs. Jackson, impressed my young mind very forcibly. After the evening meal at the Hermitage, as he and some other officers were seated with the worthy couple by their ample fireplace, Mrs. Jackson, as was her favorite custom, lighted her pipe, and having taken a whiff or two, handed it to my father, saying, "Honey, won't you take a smoke?"

The enthusiasm of the people of Nashville for their favorite has been descanted upon, years ago. I remember well the extravagant demonstrations of it, especially after the result of the election was known. I walked the streets with my father the night of the illuminations and saw but two houses not lighted up, and these were both mobbed. One was the mansion of Judge McNairy, who was once a friend of Jackson, but for some reason became opposed to him, and at that time was one of the very few Whigs in Nashville. On that triumphant night the band played the hymn familiar to all, beginning: "Blow ye the trumpet blow," and ending: "The year of Jubilee is come, return ye ransomed people home." This certainly looked like deifying the man they delighted to honor, and I remember it seemed very wicked to me. When the old man finally started for Washington, a crowd of ladies were assembled on the piazza of the hotel, overlooking the Cumberland river to "see the conquering hero go." I mingled with them and distinctly remember hearing one lady say she had had a good-bye kiss from the General, and she should not wash it off for a month. Oh! what a noise there was! A parrot, which had been brought up a democrat, was "hurrahing for Jackson," and the clapping of hands, the shouting, and waving of handkerchiefs have seldom been equalled. When the steamboat passed out of sight, and all realized that he was really gone, the city seemed to subside and settle down, as if the object of its being was accomplished.

But the sad part of my remembrances, is the death of Mrs. Jackson. Early one bright pleasant morning my father was putting on his uniform to go with the other officers then in the city, to the Hermitage to escort the President-elect to Nashville. Before he had completed his toilet a black man left at the door a hand-bill announcing Mrs. Jackson's death, and requesting the officers to come to the Hermitage at a time specified, with the usual badges of mourning, to attend her funeral. She had died very suddenly at night, without any apparent disease, it being very generally supposed that her death was occasioned by excess of joy at her husband's election. When it was discovered that she was dead, the grief-stricken husband could not be prevailed upon to part with her body, but held it tightly in his arms until almost forced from his embrace.

This news caused great commotion. Many ladies went out from the city to superintend the funeral arrangements, and displayed more zeal than judgment by arraying the body in white satin, with kid gloves and slippers. Pearl ear-rings and necklace were likewise placed upon it; but, at the suggestion of some whose good sense had not entirely forsaken them, I believe, these ornaments were removed. The day of the funeral, proving damp and drizzly, the walk from the house to the grave was thickly laid with cotton for the procession to pass over.

Notwithstanding the grief displayed by the friends of this really good and noble woman, on account of her sudden death, it was supposed by many, that after all, they felt it a relief; for it had been a matter of great anxiety how she would appear as mistress of the White House, especially as some of her warm, but injudicious friends, had selected and prepared an outfit for the occasion, more suitable for a young and blooming bride than for a homely, withered looking old woman.

During the war of the rebellion, as the Fifth Division of the Army of the Cumberland was marching from Gallatin to camp near Nashville, the General in command arranged that myself and daughter, who were visiting the army and keeping with them from day to day, should call at the Hermitage, as the troops passed near. An escort was furnished us, and we turned off in our ambulance at the nearest point. We soon reached the great gate, and, passing up the avenue of dark, sombre evergreens, to the broad piazza of the historic old mansion, were received by the hostess, the wife of General Jackson's adopted son. Our reception, while not uncivil, was certainly frigid, and we had expected nothing more cordial from those who called us their enemies. After a short, constrained conversation, we were shown the General's room, and some portraits of distinguished people on the walls, and were then conducted to the tomb at the foot of the garden, where husband and wife lie side by side under a canopy supported by marble pillars and shaded by magnolia trees, whose rich, glossy leaves and royal white blossoms made the sacred spot a lovely resting place for the old man and his beloved Rachel. On the tablet, which covers her remains, we read the following inscription, prepared by her husband:

"Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President Jackson, who died the twenty-second of December, 1828, aged sixty-one. Her face was fair; her person, pleasing; her temper, amiable; her heart, kind; she delighted in relieving the wants of her fellow creatures, and cultivated that divine pleasure by the most liberal and unpretending methods. To the poor, she was a benefactor; to the rich, an example; to the wretched, a comforter, to the prosperous, an ornament; her piety went hand in hand with her benevolence; and she thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good. A being so gentle and so virtuous, slander might wound but could not dishonor. Even death, when he tore her from the arms of her husband, could but transport her to the bosom of her God."

At his own special request, the tablet which marks the spot where he rests, has only this simple record:

"General Andrew Jackson.
Born on the 15th of March, 1767;
Died on the 8th of June, 1845."

Among the notable persons whom we frequently met during the year of our sojourn in Nashville, was Samuel Houston, since so thoroughly identified with the early history of Texas. He was at that time moving in gay society, was called an elegant gentleman, was very fine looking and very vain of his personal appearance; but domestic troubles completely changed his whole life, and leaving his wife and family, he abjured the world and went into exile, as he termed it. While we were in Smithland, Kentucky, to which place our father had been ordered from Nashville, he stopped with us on his way to the wilderness, and excited our childish admiration by his fanciful hunter's garb and the romance which surrounded him. I remember, too, that he begged a fine greyhound and a pointer from my brother, who gave them up, but not without a great struggle with himself, for he loved them,—little thinking then, dear boy, that this man, fantastically clad in buckskin, would one day, as President of Texas, repay him amply by delivering him from a great peril.

I record here a reminiscence of Smithland which stamps that little town, and its surroundings, indelibly upon my memory. One day, as my brother and I were at play in front of the recruiting office, which was situated on the one long street, near the river bank, a steamboat, with its flag flying, came down the Ohio and rounded to at the wharf. As it made the turn, we noticed that the deck was crowded with negroes, and we heard them singing some of their camp meeting hymns in a way to touch all hearts. The strain was in a minor key, and, as the poor creatures swayed their bodies back and forth and clapped their hands at intervals, we were strangely moved; and when, the landing being effected, and the gang-plank arranged, they came off, chained in pairs, and were marched, still singing, to a shed prepared for them, we could not keep back the tears. The overseer, a great strong man, cracking his "blacksnake" from time to time, to enforce authority, excited our strong indignation. All this is an impossibility now, thank God, but then it was a cruel, dreadful reality. Like cattle, they were penned for the night, and were to be kept there for a day or two, till another boat should take them to New Orleans to be sold for the cane brake and the cotton field. They had been bought by the dealer in men and women, who had them in charge, at the slave pen in Washington, the capital of the United States. For aught I know, Uncle Tom may have been among them, destined for the genial, easy-going St. Clare and finally to pass into the hands of Legree, the brute, who was to whip him to death. The next morning a bright mulatto woman surprised us, as we were at breakfast, by coming into our room and begging my father to purchase her. I never knew how she managed to do this, I only know she stood before our free, happy household pleading most earnestly, said she was not a field hand, was a good house servant in her master's family where she was born and raised, and had been sold, "because massa died, and de family was too poor to keep me; I'se a fustrate cook, and 'd sarve you faithful; and, oh, mistis," turning to my mother, "I'se lef' little chillun in de ole Virginny home, and if you buys me, may be I might see 'um again sometime." But it could not be, and the poor sorrowing mother went back to the gang, whose breaking hearts were pining for home and dear ones they could never again behold. And one morning they were driven onto another boat, and passing slowly out of sight, sang, as they sailed down the river to their doom, "swing low, sweet chariot," etc.