Andrew Jackson and Major Ridge

By Linda Buxbaum

Did you know that Andrew Jackson fought in and survived the Revolutionary War, spending time as a British prisoner? Did you know he lost his entire family? Did you know Europeans introduced the practice of scalping in America? Did you know that, for a time, the British offered generous payments in silver for Native American skins? Andrew Jackson

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Sep 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781643670331

Linda Buxbaum

Linda Buxbaum earned a double major studying history and English at the University of Montana, where she also studied creative writing. She spent twenty-two years in Butte, Montana, teaching at the local high school before moving onto a ranch in western Montana with her husband. The story of Henry Plummer, the sheriff of Bannack hanged by vigilantes in1864, has always intrigued her. This novel, as well as her first published novel, The Price of Copper, made the semifinalist list in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Words and Music Creative Writing Competition in New Orleans, an international contest for writers.

Book preview

Buxbaum_Linda_8050_cvr_V2.jpg

Andrew Jackson

and

Major Ridge

Andrew Jackson

and

Major Ridge

Linda Buxbaum

Andrew Jackson and Major Ridge

Copyright © 2018 by Linda Buxbaum. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

1603 Capitol Ave., Suite 310 Cheyenne, Wyoming USA 82001

1-888-980-6523 | [e-mail]

URLink Print and Media is committed to excellence in the publishing industry.

Book design copyright © 2018 by URLink Print and Media. All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-64367-032-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64367-033-1 (Digital)

Fiction/Historical

24.08.18

Andrew Jackson

Early October 1780

Waxhaw Peninsula in the Carolinas

He smelled the campfires burning and saw shadowy figures in green jackets hunker down beside their warmth. It was early evening, and the smell of roasting meat and the sharp scent of coffee made Andrew’s belly clench in hollow hunger. He slipped silently from tree to tree until he came close enough to hear their conversations. Fall had come early with a killing frost, and he had to avoid stepping on the fallen and now crunchy, brilliant orange and golden leaves. It seemed as if Mother Nature had disapproved of the horrific bloodshed, violence, and slaughter to the point of sending a hard freeze to chill hot emotions.

Because of their sadistic fighting and their vulgar language, Andrew thought of the British soldiers as brutes and scalawags. One man stood up, and scratching his genitals, swore, I swant! That little hussy we covered back there must ‘a had the clap, maybe even the French pox. I sure gotta bad discomfort now.

Another man guffawed. It’s all those strumpets you’ve been focking in the cities, you randy tar! Don’t be blamin’ that sweet, young tart we all had our way with two days past.

Just then Andrew saw his older cousin, Thomas, slinking around a tree. S-s-shh, he signaled, putting a finger to his lips and then a hand behind his ear, pointing to the encamped British troops. Thomas stood still, and Andrew crept nearer, coming so close to an officer, he could have spit on him. His heart pounded hard, thumping loudly in his ears, and he had to concentrate to hear what the Brit was saying.

I think we should raid this neighborhood once more before returning to Charleston. Spread some horror before we fight those Nancy revolutionaries and their backwoods mincing around. Dad burn it! If they’d just come out and fight like men, in lines and regiments instead of pussying around in the trees and pickin’ us off like we’s partridges. Yeah! I say tomorrow morning we give them some of our own Jesse. Terrorize the hell outa this Waxhaw country.

Andrew crept back toward his cousin, his eyes warning him to remain quiet. When he reached him, he whispered, They’re coming our way tomorrow morning. Let’s go! We’ve got to spread the word.

They crept back to their horses, and just as they were mounting them, Thomas’ horse whinnied long and loud. A British soldier guarding the outskirts of the camp heard it and came running.

Blame it all! Andrew swore. We better get the hell outa here!

The boys tore off, racing through the trees dodging branches and undergrowth until they found a path that led them out into a meadow. Andrew swung his horse around and waited for a moment. Oh, shat! he called out to Thomas, He’s coming after us!

Andrew dug his heels into his horse’s sides, urging him into a full gallop. His heart beat fast, and rivulets of sweat ran down his neck and back, soon becoming torrents of icy, terror-caused torture. His hands held the reins so tightly they became stiff and frozen, feeling like chunks of floe left on the flooded river banks each spring. But, despite that, Andrew smiled because his horse had found new energy, and he snorted and pulled out even faster than before. He had trained him himself, and it felt good to be galloping full speed across a meadow instead of hiding and lurking behind trees with heart racing, avoiding a run-in with some British soldier or troop.

Now, a British dragoon chased them, the most vicious of the enemy. Andrew screwed his head around and saw that his cousin was still behind him, and it looked as if they would out-run the Brit. God only knew what would happen to them if they were caught. Would they be hacked to death and left to a long and painful dying like their men had after the Buford Massacre? Or, would they be taken prisoner and then what?

Andrew remembered when the hundred or so wounded had been brought into their meeting house in Lancaster. The floor and the benches now held dark stains from the many saber wounds each man suffered. It had been difficult to know where to begin caring for them, because each soldier had an average of sixteen bayonet piercings. Most of them died days later.

Andrew’s mother, Elizabeth, broke down and wept when tending to these men, and that alone had shaken Andrew more than the fearsome sight of so much blood, for his mother never cried. He guessed that becoming a widow three weeks before he was born had made her tough. Plus, she had spent the last thirteen years taking care of him, his two brothers, Hugh and Robert, and the eight Crawford children. That would make any woman strong.

He wished they could have found his cousin, Luke. He, too, scouted and carried messages for the Carolina militia. Andrew loved him best of his brothers and cousins. They had been closest in age and had a long-running competition between them. They were wiry, sinewy, and strapping, and despite their tall lankiness, they could throw their weight around like two-hundred-pound men. Andrew recalled their Sunday matches just before meeting, which had exasperated his mother to her limits. They both had such tempers that it had become virtually impossible for Elizabeth to separate them.

When they would finally stand apart, Luke would yell, That carroty-pated, caudge-pawed, chaw bacon won’t stay throwed! And turning to Andrew he would yell, That’s not how wrestling works, you rube!! When you’re throwed, you’re throwed!

Andrew would return with, I don’t have to stay throwed!! If I can come unthrowed, then I’ll come unthrowed.

His mother always told him to keep that attitude. Never give up, son. If you can pull yourself up after you’ve been down, then do it! But remember to pick and choose your battles carefully, because people are the most important thing in life. You never know when a friend will come in handy. Honor them and they will return that courtesy.

Andrew’s mind jerked back to the present when he heard a cry behind him. He turned to see his cousin cut down by the British dragoon and thrown over his saddle. He didn’t know how that could have happened until he saw Thomas’ horse struggling to free itself from a bog, and he cried out in anguish as he lay his head down on his horse’s neck and pressed him homeward.

Elizabeth waited, anxious for her youngest son to return. Robert had come in earlier and slept peacefully in his bed despite all the turmoil around him. The Waxhaw region had been shaken out of its quiet, country charm ever since Colonel Banastre Tarleton had swept in from Charleston after the British had captured the city.

This young, handsome, and dandy British officer had organized a large and deadly regiment of 170 Loyalists and British army dragoons, along with 100 mounted British Legion infantry, and three-pound cannon with which to terrorize their district. He and his troops were a part of the British southern strategy, a divide and conquer concept. They knew that the large number of Tories in the neighborhood could be counted on for support until the Buford Massacre at Waxhaw Creek, when Tarleton had given no quarter to Abraham Buford who had asked to surrender. Tarleton’s men had continued to cut down the rebels, repeatedly stabbing any patriot who moved during the silent aftermath of the battle.

From that time on, the rebels’ cry of Tarleton’s Quarter mustered the support of neutral settlers and those who had formerly favored the British war efforts. Many a Loyalist cried out in anger as their sons, grandsons, and nephews joined the rebel cause. Tarleton and his men had struck this region twice, and each time, Elizabeth, her sister Jane, and the younger children fled to Charlotte, seeking refuge. Luckily, each time they returned, they found their beautiful home still standing. Tarleton and his troops struck at mills, stores, and churches first, and then began randomly terrorizing people and destroying their homes. People never knew who would be targeted next, and the not-knowing was a greater part of their fear.

Elizabeth smiled sadly when she remembered moving here with her husband, Andrew. They had been so hopeful when leaving their Scots-Irish hometown of Boneybefore, Ireland. This piedmont area had proven to be a place of great promise with its long, warm summers and short, cool winters, where vegetation seemed to have a mind of its own. Andrew had worked hard to clear the land, and the bit of crops he managed to plant had flourished. But clearing the land had killed him, broken his back. Elizabeth moved in with her sickly sister Jane and her husband James, taking care of everyone in exchange for her family’s room and board. James was gone now, becoming one of the first casualties of Waxhaw.

Elizabeth paced. They had not only lost James but also her oldest son, Hugh. Tarleton had cut him down as he carried the rebel standard into the battle at Waxhaw Creek. Since then, she hadn’t been able to think of the British soldiers as Christians. Men who would not give quarter to a young teenager, carrying the flag, could not possibly believe in the Lord. She squared her shoulders, realizing that she had at least raised all her children as God-fearing, decent people.

Elizabeth started when she heard the sound of hoof beats pounding into the yard and ran outside, hoping it would be her son and not some British soldier.

They got Thomas! We ran as fast as we could but his horse got stuck in a bog. Has Luke shown up? Tarleton’s troops plan to raid here tomorrow, and we need to warn everyone. I hope he’s here.

Elizabeth shook her head. Only Robert is home. He’s sleeping and didn’t say anything about a raid. Put your horse away. I’ve got stew warmed and some corn bread. I don’t know how we can leave now; Jane suffers so again and will be hard to move.

Andrew hurried back to the house after putting his horse away and wolfed down his food, hungry despite worry about his missing cousins and the frightening prospects of another Tarleton raid. Elizabeth watched him, fretting about how this war had affected her sons and all the children she had raised. She and Jane would have to leave soon. It was just them now; the three younger Crawford girls had gone to help their sister Margaret nurse the many wounded rebels after their defeat at Camden. They wouldn’t be home for at least a month.

Andrew helped his mother with the horses and carried his aunt out and settled her into her nest of quilts they had made in the wagon bed. He hugged and kissed them good-bye, telling his mother which road would be safest. He knew the entire region like the life lines that ran across his palms.

Elizabeth clung to him and then allowed him to help her up. She prayed fervently for them all as she giddy-upped the horses. Andrew walked slowly into the house to wake his brother. He could still smell the aroma of his mother’s stew and the scent of the beeswax she had used to polish the furniture. He treasured the warmth and smells of his home, his sixth sense telling him to store this memory and keep it safe, and then he wondered if he would ever see Thomas again.

March 1781

Since October, Andrew and Robert had been admitted into the army as irregular soldiers. They had fought continuous guerilla warfare with the British who fought back with increasing viciousness. After the Brits had lost over a third of their men at the Battle of King’s Mountain to the Scotch-Irish Carolinians led by Isaac Shelby and John Sevier, their retaliations, led by Tarleton against small bands of rebels and the local citizens, had become even more horrific. Tarleton’s troops had been crushed at Cowpens, where he had lost almost half his Legion. Both Thomas and Luke were dead now, and Aunt Jane suffered from an insane grief that promised to take her, too.

Tarleton and his men raged through the region, wrecking vengeance wherever they could. Andrew and his brother, Robert, now ran, sans horses, from tree to tree trying to make it back to the Crawford home where they hoped to find a warm meal before getting their three maidenly cousins safely out of the area. Elizabeth and Jane had remained in Charlotte since their earlier escape, and the boys planned to send the girls to join them.

When they reached the Crawford plantation, the girls met them with tearful hugs and hot food. The two oldest, Megan and Molly, began packing a few things after the Jackson boys drew them a scribbled map of the route they should take to Charlotte. Tara, the youngest, insisted on remaining there, and the boys talked hard and fast to convince her to flee with her sisters.

In the midst of this argument, a pounding began at the front door. Megan smoothed her hair, put on her best smile, and answered it. Two local Loyalists stood outside, craning their necks, attempting to see as much as they could of the inside.

You girls hiding rebs in here? We saw some men sneaking around outside.

Megan smiled innocently and shook her head.

The men shoved their way in and began their search in the kitchen, where they saw the knapsacks lying on the table. Molly had quickly hidden the map.

Going somewhere?

Tara spoke out, bitter, What’s it to you, you nosey rubes?

One of the men stepped up to her, and getting into her face said, Watch yer mouth, girl!

She scowled at him while Molly sweetly proclaimed, Just going for an outing in the woods. Gonna see if we can’t bag some fowl for dinner.

The other man snorted, You silly girls. You know that not even birds choose to hang here these days with all the fighting and killing going on. We’ll check out the house and be on our way, but if I wus you, I’d get myself outa here. Word is Tarleton and his men are in the vicinity. He stopped a moment to leer at them, You wouldn’t want ‘em findin’ you here all alone.

The girls breathed easier when the men left and peeked out the windows, watching them search the yard and barnyard. The boys returned after the intruders left, brushing straw from their clothes and urging the girls to leave immediately.

Andrew turned to his stubborn, feisty cousin. Tara, if you don’t get it in your head to leave with Megan and Molly, I will truss you up and throw you over your horse, myself. You’re being foolish. Now pack your things.

Tara glared at him. You know, Andrew, you always were bossy. Now you’re intolerable!

The brothers went out to saddle the horses while the girls finished packing. When they returned to the house they found it eerily silent. They called out to their cousins and went into the hearth room only to find them with their hands tied behind their backs and British soldiers holding their filthy hands over their mouths. Molly and Megan were still, but Tara continued to struggle, attempting to escape her captor.

Stop in yer tracks, boys. Any trouble and you’ll find them with throats slit.

Tarleton wasn’t present, but Andrew knew they were his men by their green jackets. Andrew and Robert stood, silent and helpless, as the men who weren’t holding the girls went about the house, packing up any food they found, and trashing whatever they didn’t want. The Brits could be heard in the dining room, breaking china and kicking furniture apart. When they had finished, they returned to the hearth room. One soldier shoved a huge pile of wood into the fireplace and after lighting it, proclaimed, After we rape, we burn!

The British brutes began with Tara who still struggled. She spat on one of the officer’s boots. In one swift movement, he sliced across her throat and threw her down as if she were nothing. Blood spread around her brilliant auburn hair like a crimson halo. The four cousins watched helplessly as the breath flowed out of her. Soon she lay lifeless, her eyes wide open.

Close her eyes! For the love of God, close her eyes! Andrew cried.

Shut yer mouth you little bastard, or you’ll get the same! warned one of the men holding him captive.

Just then the door burst open and two unkempt men rushed in. Whad we miss? Anythung? the bigger one shouted as he stopped to take in the scene.

Well, what duz wes have here? The smaller one proclaimed as he stepped closer to Megan and Molly. Both girls began struggling as they looked into the faces of the two abominations called men. Andrew knew instantly who they were, and quaked at the thought of them touching his cousins. They were the bloody Harpe Brothers, Big Micajah and his much smaller brother, Little Wiley, men whose grisly, inhuman acts of terror, rape, and mutilation preceded them. They were known for their filth, inside and out, and had fallen in easily with Tarleton’s men.

Big stood over Tara’s dead body, unzipped his pants, leaned down, picked her up, pushed up her skirts, and began humping on her lifeless form while Little stood behind him awaiting his turn. He turned and grinned at the Jackson boys and leered, Nuthin’ lak fuckin’ the dead early in the day. He turned back to Megan and Molly and winked, saying, And, the livin’, too.

Andrew used every ounce of self-control to keep from struggling to be free and attacking this animal. He bit his lip raw in order to keep himself silent. Megan and Molly fought and screamed as the men dragged them into the bedroom next to the hearth room. The boys heard slaps, then moans, and then silence broken only by evil laughter and foul language. Andrew felt rage boiling inside him, his head and chest feeling as if they would burst.

When the Harpe Brothers finished with Tara’s body, they joined the men in the bedroom. Andrew gave Robert a look, and they began grappling with their captors. The four men easily overtook them and subdued them, knocking them on their heads with fists and pistol butts until it took all the boys’ strength, their heads swimming, just to stay on their feet. From the bedroom, Andrew heard a Brit yell out in exasperation, Well, whud ya do that for? Now ye’ve ruint all our fun. I ain’t had my turn but I ain’t gonna fuck no dead woman. Andrew knew his cousins lived no more, and for that, he was grateful.

When they returned, the officer whose boot Tara had spat on turned to Andrew. Get that spittle off my boots, you little fucker.

Andrew glared at him and took an upright, challenging stance as his captors let him go. I’m a prisoner of war and will do no such thing.

The officer looked at him for a moment, raised his arm, and slashed down at him with his sword. Andrew instinctively caught it with his left hand, but not quickly enough to keep his forehead from receiving a gaping wound. His hand and head gushed blood. The Brit swiftly turned to Robert and hacked at him, leaving a deep, bloody gash in his head. Andrew turned, gasping at the extent of the damage the ruthless man had caused. Blood and grey matter oozed from Robert’s head.

The officer would have killed them, but one of his men reminded him that they would make good guides to Thompson’s place, another pesky patriot they wanted to put out of commission. The soldiers tied the boys’ hands in front of them. As they hauled them from the house, Andrew turned to look back one last time. A vision of his family, the Crawfords and the Jacksons, sitting around the roaring fireplace, merrily opening their Christmas gifts, floated before his mind’s eye, and he cried out in an anguished, harsh voice.

The boys were bound to the back of a wagon and forced to watch as the men set fire to the house and out buildings. Then they moved out. The jerks of the wagon kept Andrew from passing out, but his brother Robert looked ready to collapse. Andrew encouraged him to stay on his feet, but all he received in return was a strange babble and a blank stare.

Andrew knew two different routes to Thompson’s and made sure the Brits followed the longest one. Thompson escaped right underneath the British’s monstrously ugly noses. Then they started for the prison camp in Camden, forty miles away. They went on for hours, with hardly any breaks, and the hours turned into days. They traveled during the night with lanterns bobbing up ahead on wagons. They splashed through the creeks and rivers, but weren’t allowed to drink. Andrew’s head wound stopped bleeding, but blood had crusted over his left eye, blinding it. Robert’s wound continued to weep blood and matter.

Andrew kept his mind off his discomfort and his worry about Robert by thinking. He remembered what Pastor Humphries had told them about the philosophers and their thoughts about the human condition and of government. He wondered what Voltaire, Montesquieu, John Locke, John Milton, and Thomas Hobbes would think of this unending war, a war not just for ideals, but also for the riches of this continent. A place where persecuted people from all over the world came to be able to feed their children, and give them a good life free from religious and political strife.

Andrew would forever regret that he had insisted on staying home after only two winters spent at boarding school. He liked learning but had become homesick. His mother hoped he would become a pastor, but his yearning for home along with his horrible temper had ruined that notion. Still, Andrew wanted to be someone important like Thomas Paine. He wanted to do something that would make a good difference, make things better for people.

Thomas Paine had gotten everyone’s attention by speaking out against monarchies, dictatorships, or any situation where one man was exalted over many and had complete reign over all. He declared that it was, according to God’s words in the Biblical books of Samuel and Kings, idolatry to glorify one man over many.

Andrew drew hope from Paine’s claim that once Americans banded together against the tyrannies of King George and the Parliament, they would easily overcome them by strength and numbers, along with the many resources of the New World. Paine had asserted that the land alone was a great asset, and with that, came great forests, providing timber and many other blessings with which to fight. Paine’s reminder that many Americans were not from Britain and would never harbor any ties or affection for that country had also been encouraging.

Andrew thought of all the different nations represented in the Continental Army