to get into the fight. Soon Jackson was able to conclude that he’d become persona non grata at the War Department as the result of stepping on too many toes, a habit long since perfected and honed. Still, the fiery militia general gnashed his teeth at Washington’s inaction, because it is doubtful that anyone in America loathed the English more than Andrew Jackson, and not without good cause; he was perfectly ripe for hating.
Like the new nation in which he lived, Jackson was suspended between a difficult past and an uncertain future. He had no formal military training, but as a leader of military men he had few peers; he was smart, honest, brave as a lion, and, like the lion, he could be a cold-blooded killer.
J ackson was born on March 15, 1767, in the scrubby Waxhaw District of eastern South Carolina,* 16 a child of Scots-Irish immigrants who had come to America two years earlier. Andrew’s father died only a few days before his new son’s birth, after “straining himself” lifting a log, and now Andrew’s mother abandoned the farm, which the Jacksons had hoped would provide their living and fortune, and moved with the baby and his two siblings to a relative’s house nearby, where she took up duties as a housekeeper and babysitter.
To say that young Andrew grew up precocious would understate the case. He was more like a terror—fighting, swearing, gambling, smoking, and drinking, traits that would stay with him a lifetime—dashing the fond hopes of his mother that he would one day become a Presbyterian minister. Yet he was also smart and received a fair education, though he never quite mastered the skills of spelling and grammar.
By the time Andrew was thirteen the American Revolution had swept into the Upper Carolinas, spearheaded by the cruel and remorseless Scottish cavalryman Colonel Banastre Tarleton and his infamous green-coated dragoons, who ruthlessly raised the level of violence and brutality: hanging, burning, raping, and looting, and, in the process, touching off a civil war between patriots and Tories of the region that pitted neighbor against neighbor.
Andrew’s older brother Hugh died fighting the British at the Battle of Stono Ferry in 1779, and the following year the two remaining Jackson boys, Robert, sixteen, and Andrew, thirteen, signed up to fight with the cavalry of Colonel William Davie. By then the fighting in the Carolinas had turned so ferocious that no quarter was generally given by either side and massacres were commonplace. Because of his age and riding prowess, young Andrew was made a courier, but he certainly saw his share of war and developed a lifelong loathing of the British practice of it.
The following year both boys were captured by a British raiding party. When Andrew refused an “imperious” order to clean a British officer’s boots, the man struck him with his saber, slashing him savagely on his head and hand, leaving scars, both physical and mental, for the rest of his life. The raiders then looted the house, raped the women, and burned the place down, barn and all. Andrew and Robert were thrown into a filthy, bedless British prison in Camden and put on a diet of bread and water; a Tory stole Andrew’s pistol, shoes, coat, and hat, and both boys contracted smallpox, a scourge that had already wreaked havoc across the nation.
Plucky Elizabeth Jackson, hearing of her boys’ capture, rode into Camden and persuaded the British commander to include the two youngsters in an exchange of prisoners that was being negotiated. Robert was so weak from disease that he had to be strapped on a horse, while Andrew, barefoot, hatless, and coatless in the rain, walked the forty miles it took to get home. Robert died two days later, and it looked as though Andrew, too, was doomed, but nursed by his mother he pulled through.
Several months later, when Andrew seemed to be on the road to recovery, Elizabeth journeyed to Charleston to minister to her two nephews, who were ill
Like the new nation in which he lived, Jackson was suspended between a difficult past and an uncertain future. He had no formal military training, but as a leader of military men he had few peers; he was smart, honest, brave as a lion, and, like the lion, he could be a cold-blooded killer.
J ackson was born on March 15, 1767, in the scrubby Waxhaw District of eastern South Carolina,* 16 a child of Scots-Irish immigrants who had come to America two years earlier. Andrew’s father died only a few days before his new son’s birth, after “straining himself” lifting a log, and now Andrew’s mother abandoned the farm, which the Jacksons had hoped would provide their living and fortune, and moved with the baby and his two siblings to a relative’s house nearby, where she took up duties as a housekeeper and babysitter.
To say that young Andrew grew up precocious would understate the case. He was more like a terror—fighting, swearing, gambling, smoking, and drinking, traits that would stay with him a lifetime—dashing the fond hopes of his mother that he would one day become a Presbyterian minister. Yet he was also smart and received a fair education, though he never quite mastered the skills of spelling and grammar.
By the time Andrew was thirteen the American Revolution had swept into the Upper Carolinas, spearheaded by the cruel and remorseless Scottish cavalryman Colonel Banastre Tarleton and his infamous green-coated dragoons, who ruthlessly raised the level of violence and brutality: hanging, burning, raping, and looting, and, in the process, touching off a civil war between patriots and Tories of the region that pitted neighbor against neighbor.
Andrew’s older brother Hugh died fighting the British at the Battle of Stono Ferry in 1779, and the following year the two remaining Jackson boys, Robert, sixteen, and Andrew, thirteen, signed up to fight with the cavalry of Colonel William Davie. By then the fighting in the Carolinas had turned so ferocious that no quarter was generally given by either side and massacres were commonplace. Because of his age and riding prowess, young Andrew was made a courier, but he certainly saw his share of war and developed a lifelong loathing of the British practice of it.
The following year both boys were captured by a British raiding party. When Andrew refused an “imperious” order to clean a British officer’s boots, the man struck him with his saber, slashing him savagely on his head and hand, leaving scars, both physical and mental, for the rest of his life. The raiders then looted the house, raped the women, and burned the place down, barn and all. Andrew and Robert were thrown into a filthy, bedless British prison in Camden and put on a diet of bread and water; a Tory stole Andrew’s pistol, shoes, coat, and hat, and both boys contracted smallpox, a scourge that had already wreaked havoc across the nation.
Plucky Elizabeth Jackson, hearing of her boys’ capture, rode into Camden and persuaded the British commander to include the two youngsters in an exchange of prisoners that was being negotiated. Robert was so weak from disease that he had to be strapped on a horse, while Andrew, barefoot, hatless, and coatless in the rain, walked the forty miles it took to get home. Robert died two days later, and it looked as though Andrew, too, was doomed, but nursed by his mother he pulled through.
Several months later, when Andrew seemed to be on the road to recovery, Elizabeth journeyed to Charleston to minister to her two nephews, who were ill
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