used for building purposes in those days, so the boys who lived near the
Catawba were sent to what were called "old-field schools." An
"old-field" was really a pine forest. When many crops of cotton, planted
season after season without change, had exhausted the soil, the fences
were taken away, and the land was left waste. Young pines soon sprang
up, and in a short time the field would be covered with a thick wood.
In the wood, as near to the road as possible, a small space would be
cleared, and the rudest kind of log house built, with a huge fireplace
filling one side of the room. The chinks in the logs were filled with
red clay. The trunk of a tree, cut into a plank, was fastened to four
upright posts, and served the whole school as a writing-desk. A little
below it was stretched a smooth log, and this was the seat for the
scholars.
A wandering schoolmaster was engaged by the farmers, only for a few
months at a time, and he taught the children reading, writing, and
arithmetic. When the weather was bad, and the roads, made of thick red
clay, were too heavy for travel, or when there was farming to be done,
the school was closed.
This was the only school Mrs. Jackson could send her son Andrew to, and
he went there when he was about ten, and took his place on the slab
bench, a tall, slim boy, with bright blue eyes, a freckled face, very
long sandy hair, wearing a rough homespun suit, and with bare feet and
legs. He was not very fond of school, but he did like to be with other
boys, and to lead them in any kind of an adventure, particularly if
there was the chance of a fight.
There was much in this country life to interest an active boy like
Andrew Jackson. Wherever there were no cotton fields there were thick
pine woods full of wild turkeys and deer to be had for the shooting. The
farmers of the Catawba country took their cotton to market in immense
covered wagons, often needing a week to make the journey, and camping
out every night. Boys were in demand to help load the cotton, and gather
wood for the camp-fires, and many a time Andrew was hired to travel to
market with a farmer and his wife and young children, and many a night
he spent in a little opening in the woods eating supper and sleeping
close to a blazing fire of pine knots that lighted up the trees for
yards around.
The farmers were not apt to leave their wives and children at home,
because either the British or the Indians might sweep down upon the
district at any time. So quite a party would travel together, and that
added to the fun. Such a life, with plenty of horses to ride, and
turkeys to hunt, and journeys to make, with only occasional schooling,
appealed strongly to Andrew.
In August, 1780, when young Jackson was twelve years old, the American
General Gates was defeated by the British, and Cornwallis marched into
the country of the Catawba. Many families left their homes and went
north to be safe from the enemy, and among others Mrs. Jackson and her
sons determined to seek a safer home. Andrew's mother and his brother
Robert left on horseback, and a day or two later Andrew followed them.
The people all through that desolate part of the country were anxious
for news of the war, especially for word of fathers or brothers in the
army, and they stood by the roads and asked news eagerly of any chance
horseman. At one lonely house a little girl was stationed at the gate to
question travelers. About sunset one day she saw a tall, gawkish boy
come riding along the road, astride of one of the rough, wild, South
Carolina ponies. His bare legs were almost long enough to meet under the
pony; he wore a torn wide-brimmed hat which napped about his face. His
scanty shirt and trousers were covered with dust, and his face was
burned brown and worn with hardship. He had ridden so far and was so
tired that he could scarcely keep his seat.
"Where you from?" cried the girl, as the boy reined up.
"From down below, along Waxhaw Creek."
"Where you going?"
"Up along north."
"Who you for?"
"The Continental Congress."
"What you doing to the Redcoats down below?"
"Oh, we're poppin' 'em still."
"An' what may your name be?"
"Andy Jackson. Anythin' else you'd like to know?"
She asked him for news of her father's regiment, but the boy knew little
about it, and was soon riding on his way, following the highroad to
Charlotte.
In Charlotte the Jacksons boarded with some relatives, and Andrew worked
hard to pay for his food and lodging. He drove cattle, tended the mill,
brought in wood, picked beans, and did any odd jobs that fell to his
hand. All the time he was hoping for a chance to fight the enemy, and
each day he brought home some new weapon. One day it was a rude spear
which he had forged while he waited for the blacksmith to finish a job,
another time it was a wooden club, and another a tomahawk. Once he
fastened the blade of a scythe to a pole, and when he reached home began
cutting down weeds with it, crying, "Oh, if only I were a man, how I'd
cut down the Redcoats with this!"
The man with whom he was living happened to be watching him, and said
later to Andrew's mother: "That boy Andy is going to fight his way in
this world."
The war between the colonists and the British was especially bitter in
the Carolinas, where conditions were more rude and simple than in other
parts of the country. The stories that came to Andrew were enough to
stir any boy's blood. He had heard that at Charleston the farmers had
used their cotton bales to build a fort, that the guerrilla leader
Marion had split saws into sword blades for his men, that in more than
one encounter the Carolina militia had gone into battle with more men
than muskets, so that the unarmed men had to stand and watch the battle
until some comrade fell and they could rush in and seize his gun.
Popular legends made the Redcoats little less than devils, fit
companions for the Indian bands they sent upon the war-path.
News of one attack after another came to the Jackson boys until they
could stand inaction no longer, and joined a small band of independent
riders, not members of any regiment, but free to attack and retreat as
they liked.
Andrew's first real taste of battle came when he, his brother Robert,
and six friends were guarding the house of a neighbor, Captain Sands.
The captain had come to see his family, and it was known that the house
might be attacked by Tories.
Leaving one man to watch, the rest of the defenders stretched themselves
out on the floor of the living-room and went to sleep. The sentry also
dozed, but toward midnight he was roused by a suspicious noise, and
investigating found that two bands of the enemy were approaching the
house, one in the front and one in the rear. He rushed indoors, and
seized Andrew, who was sleeping next to the door, by the hair. "The
Tories are upon us!" he cried in great alarm. The boy jumped up, and ran
out of doors. Seeing men in the distance he placed his gun in the fork
of a tree by the door, and hailed the men. They made no reply. He called
to them again. There was no answer, but they came on double-quick.
By this time the other defenders were roused, and had joined the boy.
Andrew fired, and the attacking party answered with a volley. The Tories
who were creeping up from the rear supposed the volley was fired from
the defenders, and immediately answered with fire from their guns.
Andrew and his companions retreated into the house, having managed for a
few moments to draw the enemy's fire in the darkness against each other.
The Tories halted and learned their mistake.
By now the men indoors opened fire from the windows on both parties.
Several Tories fell, and the rest were held at bay. Then very
fortunately a distant bugle was heard sounding the cavalry charge, and
the Tories, thinking they had been led into an ambush and were about to
be attacked in the rear, dashed to their horses and, mounting, rode off
at full speed.
It turned out afterward that a neighbor, hearing the firing at Captain
Sands' house, had blown his bugle, hoping to give the enemy alarm in the
darkness, and that in reality the trick had worked to perfection. So the
Jackson boys had luck with them in their first skirmish.
They were not so lucky next time. The British general heard of the
activity of the little band of colonists and planned to end them. He
heard that about forty of the farmers were gathered at the Waxhaw
meeting-house, and he sent a body of dragoons, dressed in rough country
clothes, to seize them. The farmers were expecting a band of neighbors,
and were fooled by the British. Eleven of the forty were taken
prisoners, and the rest fled, pursued hotly by the dragoons.
Andrew found himself riding desperately by the side of his cousin,
Lieutenant Thomas Crawford. For a time they kept to the road, and then
turned across a swampy field, where they soon came to a wide slough of
mire. They plunged their horses into the bog. Andrew struggled through,
but when he reached the bank he found that his cousin's horse had
fallen, and that Thomas was trying to fight off his pursuers with his
sword. Andrew started back, but before he could get near his cousin the
latter had been forced to surrender. The boy then turned, and succeeded
in outriding the dragoons, and finally found refuge in the woods, where
his brother Robert joined him that night.
The next morning hunger forced the two boys to seek a house, and they
crept up to their cousin's. They left their guns and horses in the
woods, and reached the house safely. Unfortunately a Tory neighbor had
seen them, and, seizing their horses and arms, he sent word to the
British soldiers. Before the boys had any notice of attack the house was
surrounded and they were taken prisoners.
Andrew never forgot the scene that followed. There were no men in the
house, only his cousin's wife and young children. Nevertheless the
soldiers destroyed everything they could find, smashed furniture,
crockery, glass, tore all the clothing to rags, and broke in windows and
doors. Then the officer in charge ordered Andrew to clean his high
riding-boots, which were crusted with mud. The boy refused to do it,
saying, "I've a right to be treated as a prisoner of war."
The officer swore, and aimed a blow with his sword at Andrew's head.
Jackson threw up his left arm as a shield and received two wounds, one a
deep gash on the head, the other on his hand. The officer then turned to
Robert Jackson, and ordered him to clean his boots. Robert also refused.
Then the man struck this boy on the head, and knocked him to the floor.
It was a bad business, and the whole performance, especially the brutal
treatment of a defenseless woman and two boy prisoners, made a deep
impression on Andrew's mind. He was only fourteen years old, but his
fighting spirit was that of a grown man.
Shortly after this Andrew was ordered to mount a horse, and guide some
of the soldiers to the house of a well-known man named Thompson. He was
threatened with death if he failed to guide them right. There was
nothing for it but to obey, but the boy hit upon a plan by which he
might give Thompson a chance to escape. Instead of reaching the house by
the usual road he took the men a roundabout way which brought them into
full sight of the place half a mile before they reached it. As Andrew
had guessed, some one was on watch, and instantly gave the alarm, so
that the Redcoats had the pleasure of seeing the man they sought dash
from his house, mount a waiting horse, and make off toward a creek that
ran close by. The creek was swollen and very deep, but the rider plunged
into it and got safely across. The dragoons, however, did not dare
follow, and Thompson, shouting defiance at them, got safely into the
woods and away.
The prisoners were now gathered together, and placed under one escort to
be taken to the British prison at Camden, South Carolina. The journey
was a very hard one. Both the Jackson boys and their cousin, Thomas
Crawford, were suffering from wounds, but they were allowed no food or
water as they were marched the forty miles. The soldiers even forbade
the boys scooping up drinking water from one of the streams they
crossed.
The prison at Camden was wretchedness itself. Two hundred and fifty men
and boys were herded into one small enclosure. They were given no beds,
no medicine, nor bandages to dress their wounds, only a little bad bread
for food. The brothers were separated. Andrew was robbed of his coat and
shoes; he was sick and hungry and worried, for he had no idea what had
happened to his mother or brother. Then as a final horror smallpox broke
out in the prison, and the fear of contagion was added to the other
torments.
One day Andrew was lying in the sun near the prison gate when an officer
was attracted by his youth and came up to talk with him. The officer
seemed kind, and the boy poured out the miseries of the prison life to
him. He told how the men were starved or given bad food, and how they
were ill used by the guards. The officer was shocked and promised to
look into the matter. When he did he found that the contractors were not
giving the prisoners the food they were paid to provide, and he reported
the matter to those in charge. Shortly after conditions improved.
Then news came to the prison that the American General Greene was coming
to deliver them. They were tremendously excited at the report. General
Greene had indeed marched on Camden with a small army of twelve hundred
men, but as he had marched faster than his artillery he thought it best
to wait on a hill outside the town until the guns should come up with
him. Six days he stayed there, and then the British commander decided to
attack him without further delay.
The prison yard would have given a good view of the battle but for a
board fence which had lately been built on top of the wall. Andrew
looked everywhere for a crack in the boards, but could find none. He
managed, however, during the night to cut a hole with an old razor blade
which had been given the prisoners to serve as a meat knife. Through
this hole he saw something of the battle next day, and described what he
saw to the men in the yard below him.
The Americans were not expecting the British attack. When the British
general led out his nine hundred men early in the morning the Americans
were scattered over the hill, washing their clothes, cleaning their
guns, cooking, and playing cards. Andrew saw the enemy steal about the
base of the hill. There was no way in which he could warn his
countrymen. He saw the British steal up the hill, and break suddenly on
the surprised soldiers. The colonials rushed for their arms, fell into
line, met the charge. The American horse dashed upon the British rear,
and a cheer went up from the waiting prisoners. Then the British made a
second charge, and this time carried men and horses before them, down
the slope and out into the plain. The Americans ceased firing, and
finally broke in full retreat. The prisoners were in more wretched state
than they had been before.
After the battle Andrew's spirits sank to the lowest ebb. He fell ill
with the first symptoms of the dreaded smallpox. His brother was in even
worse condition. The wound in his head had not healed, as it had never
been properly treated. He also was ill, and it seemed as though both
boys were about to fall victims to the plague.
Fortunately, at this great crisis, help suddenly appeared. Their devoted
mother learned of the boys' state, and went by herself to Camden to see
if she could not procure a transfer of prisoners. She saw the British
general, and arranged that he should free her two sons and five of her
neighbors in return for thirteen British soldiers who had been recently
captured by a Waxhaw captain. The boys were set free, and joined their
mother. She was shocked to find them so changed by hunger, illness, and
wounds. Robert could not stand, and Andrew was little better off. They
were free, however, at last, and Mrs. Jackson planned to get them home
as soon as possible.
The mother could get only two horses. One she rode, and Robert was put
on the other, and held in the saddle by two of the men just freed.
Andrew dragged himself wearily behind, without hat, coat, or shoes.
Forty miles of wilderness lay between Camden and the boys' old home at
Waxhaw near the Catawba. The little party trudged along as best it
could, and were only two miles from home when a cold, drenching rain
started to fall. The boys, ill already, suffered terribly. Finally they
reached home, and were put to bed. The cold rain had proved too severe
for Robert, and two days later he died. Andrew, stricken with smallpox,
as was his brother, was very ill for a long time.
While Andrew was still sick word came to Waxhaw that the condition of
some of the men and boys in the Charleston prison ships was even worse
than that of the men at Camden. Mrs. Jackson's nephews and many of her
friends and neighbors were in the ships, and she felt that she must do
something to relieve them. As soon as she could leave Andrew, she
started with two other women to travel the hundred and sixty miles to
Charleston.
The three women carried medicines and country delicacies and gifts for
the prisoners. It was a most heroic journey. They had no protectors, and
they were going into the enemy's lines. They succeeded, however, finally
managing to gain admittance to the ships, and to deliver the messages
from home, the food, and the medicines that were so greatly needed. No
one can say how much happiness they brought to those ships in Charleston
harbor.
Mrs. Jackson stayed in the neighborhood of the city some time, doing
what she could to help her countrymen. Unfortunately disease was only
too rife in the prisons, and it was not long before she became ill with
the ship fever, and after a very short illness died. The news was
brought to Andrew, now fifteen years old, as he lay at home, just
recovering a little of his strength. He had always been devoted to his
mother and worshipped her memory all the days of his life.
The British under Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, October 19, 1781,
and the war in the south practically came to an end. Andrew Jackson came
out of the Revolution without father or mother or brother, a
convalescent in the house of a cousin, with bitter memories of the war.
For a long time he was exceedingly weak and dispirited, and that
fighting aggressive nature which had marked his early boyhood did not
return to him for some time.
The boy of sixteen had no one to advise him as to what to do. He tired
of life in the primitive Waxhaw country, and when the British evacuated
Charleston he went there, and saw something of city life. But his money
was soon spent, and he had to decide what he should turn his hand to.
The law appealed to him as a good field for advancement, just as it
appealed to so many ambitious youths of the new country.
At almost the same time there began the emigration of many Carolina
families westward into what was to become the territory of Tennessee.
Land was given to all who would emigrate and settle there. The idea of
growing up with a new community appealed to Andrew; he knew he had the
power to make his way. In 1788 he started on his journey west, traveling
in the company of about a hundred settlers. They had many adventures and
several times they were in danger of attack from Indians. Once it was
Jackson himself, sitting by the camp-fire after the others had gone to
sleep, who detected something strange in the hooting of owls about the
camp, and waked his friends just in time to save them from being
surrounded by a band of redskins on the war-path. At last they reached
the small town which had been christened Nashville, and there Andrew
decided to settle and practice law.
This was about the time that Washington was being inaugurated first
President of the United States.
[Illustration: ANDREW JACKSON AT THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS]
Andrew grew up with Tennessee. He became a big figure in the western
country. He was known as a shrewd, aggressive man, and was sent to
Congress from that district. Later, when the War of 1812 came, he was
made a general of the American forces, and finally put an end to that
war by winning the battle of New Orleans. Some of the satisfaction of
that last campaign may have atoned to him for his own sufferings in the
Revolution. When the war ended he had won the reputation of a great
general, and was one of the most popular men in the United States. His
nickname of "Old Hickory" was given him in deep affection.
Shortly afterward he was elected President, and then reëlected. He was
intensely democratic, absolutely fearless, a magnetic leader. There are
few more remarkable stories than that of the rise of the barefooted boy
of the Waxhaw to be the chief of the great republic.
XIV
Napoleon Bonaparte
The Boy of Brienne: 1769-1821
The playground of the French military school at Brienne was a great open
space looking down upon the town. Here, on a January afternoon in 1783,
a score of boys were hard at work building a snow fort. The winter had
been very cold and a great fall of snow at the first of the year had
covered the playground several feet deep. After each storm the boys in
the military school fought battles back and forth over the open ground,
and up and down the roads that led to the village; but this battle was
to be a memorable one.
A little Corsican named Bonaparte was in charge of the defending forces.
He was not very popular among his playmates. He kept very much to
himself, and when he did mix with the others he had a habit of ordering
them about. Most of the other boys were afraid of him. Time and again,
when he had been disturbed as he stood reading a book in a distant
corner of the schoolroom or walking by himself in the playground, he had
turned fiercely upon his playmates and had scattered them before him
with the passion of his face and words; but when they wanted a leader
the boys turned to Bonaparte, and now when they had decided to build a
great fort they left the direction of it entirely to his care.
The Corsican boy, who was fourteen years old, stood in the middle of the
ground, his hands clasped behind his back, nodding now in one direction,
now in another, as he ordered the boys where to bank the snow, how high
to build the ramparts, and in what lines. He was not very tall and his
face was quite colorless. Under a broad brow his piercing gray eyes
darted here and there, and then were quiet in study. He wore a blue
military coat with red facings and bright buttons, and a vest of blue
faced with white, and blue knee-breeches, and a military cocked hat.
From time to time he drew lines on the snow with a sharp-pointed stick.
Once or twice, when he found a boy idling, he spoke to him sharply, but
for the most part he kept strict silence.
After a time a young master, dressed like a priest, came out of the
school door and walked over toward Bonaparte. He smiled as he saw the
intense look on the boy's face, and the rough plan sketched before him
on the snow. He came up to the boy and stood looking down at him.
"Well, my young Spartan," said he, "what are you planning now? Some new
way to save the town from siege?"
The boy glanced up at his teacher, and a little smile parted his thin
lips. "No, Monsieur Pichegru, I was considering how we might drive the
French troops out of Corsica."
"From Corsica!" exclaimed the master. "Corsica belongs to France, and
you are a French cadet."
The boy shook his head solemnly. "Corsica should be free," he answered.
"We are more Italian than French. I hate your barbarous words, my tongue
trips over them. If I had my way no Frenchman would be left in the
island."
"Then it's well you don't have your way, Bonaparte," said Monsieur
Pichegru, laughing.
Suddenly the boy's brow clouded and his eyes grew serious. "You think I
shan't have my way then? You don't know me, no one knows me. Wait until
I grow up--then you shall see."
The master was used to this boy's strange fancies, and now he simply
shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, well, we'll wait and see, but you must learn to curb your temper
if you ever expect to do great things in the world."
"Why?" said the boy. "Must a general curb his temper? It's his part to
give orders, not to take them, and that, sir, is the part I mean to
play."
Again the master shrugged his shoulders, and the same quizzical smile
his face always wore when watching this boy lighted his eyes.
"At least we are agreed on one thing, Bonaparte; we both of us know the
most glorious profession in the world is that of the soldier. Ah, that I
might some day be a captain of artillery!"
"Why not?" said the boy. "Isn't all of Europe one big camp? Can't any
man rise who has strength to draw a sword? Believe me, Monsieur
Pichegru, if you really want to be a captain you shall be one."