Historic Boyhoods Part 15

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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 reelected. 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sion 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 b.u.t.tons, and a vest of blue faced with white, and blue knee-breeches, and a military c.o.c.ked 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."

The master glanced at the boy, and then looked quickly away. "You are a strange lad, my little Spartan," said he. "I don't think I ever knew a boy quite like you."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SNOW FORT AT BRIENNE]

The teacher moved away and the boy continued making his drawings with the pointed stick.