Andrew Jackson (29 page)

The unintended consequence of the American victory was to throw Tecumseh more to the side of the British than ever. The Prophetstown battle showed that the Americans could crush the Indians and that Harrison wouldn’t hesitate to do so. But British backing might level the field.

This prospect explained why Tecumseh was so relieved when he learned that war between the British and the Americans had begun, and why he moved at once to exploit the opportunity it afforded. Not long after the American declaration, the government at Washington appointed William Hull, an ailing veteran of the Revolutionary War with healthy political connections, to lead an attack on Canada opposite Detroit. But Tecumseh forged a coalition of Indians from several tribes and inflicted a sudden sharp blow against an American advance party. The ambush frightened Hull, who knew every Indian atrocity story and sweated nights wondering what Tecumseh’s red demons would do next. Hull’s sleep was additionally disrupted when he learned that the American post at Mackinaw, on the strait linking Lakes Michigan and Huron, had surrendered to a large enemy force. This “opened the northern hive of Indians,” Hull said afterward, “and they were swarming down in every direction.” In a panic, he aborted the campaign against Canada and prepared to retreat to Ohio, only to be trapped by the arrival of a fresh regiment of British troops and enemy Indians. Its commander, Isaac Brock, knew of Hull’s obsession with Indians and used it against him. Brock forged and let slip to the American general a document describing an Indian army approaching Detroit; in offering to let Hull surrender, Brock explained, “It is far from my inclination to join in a war of extermination, but you must be aware that the numerous body of Indians who have attached themselves to my troops will be beyond control the moment the contest commences.” Hull’s first response was horror at the fate that might befall the civilians in the fort. “My God!” he told an aide. “What shall I do with these women and children?” His second response was to accept Brock’s terms and capitulate.

A worse disaster completed the northern debacle. While surrendering Detroit, Hull ordered the evacuation of Fort Dearborn, on the western shore of Lake Michigan at the mouth of the Chicago River. Most of the garrison preferred their chances behind the fort’s walls to their prospects on the prairies outside, but the commander followed Hull’s orders. He arranged an escort of Potawatomi Indians who pledged to see the whites to safety. But once in the open the Indians turned on the whites, killing most of them and, according to an eyewitness, beheading one officer and eating his heart.

T
he news stunned Nashville. The Anglo-Indian victories in the North couldn’t but encourage the tribes throughout the West and heighten the danger everywhere. Jackson, busy trying to enlist militiamen, recognized the blow to public morale and fought back. “The disaster of the northwestern army should rouse from his apathy every man who has yet slumbered over the public welfare,” he told potential recruits. “These are the times which distinguish the real friend of his country from the town-meeting bawler and the sunshine patriot. While
these
are covering their conduct with the thinnest disguises and multiplying excuses to keep them at home, the former steps forth and proclaims his readiness to march.”

Jackson’s words produced the desired effect. Nearly three thousand volunteers enlisted (giving Tennessee grounds for the nickname it would employ ever after: “the Volunteer State”). Confusingly, they didn’t all enlist under the same conditions or for the same term of service. Some signed on for twelve months, some for six, some for three, some for as little as two. The short termers weren’t necessarily less patriotic than the longer termers; often they were simply more skeptical about the possibility of actual battle or more committed to family or business affairs. In the enthusiasm of the muster, the discrepancy appeared hardly worth bothering about.

Shortly Jackson received his marching orders. The War Department had determined that the Tennessee militia should descend the Cumberland and the Mississippi to New Orleans, there to defend against a seaborne British assault.

Jackson still thought Tecumseh the greater immediate danger, but he wouldn’t complain of a chance to fight the British, who were what made Tecumseh such a threat. “Every man of the western country turns his eyes intuitively upon the mouth of the Mississippi,” he told his troops. “At the approach of an enemy in that quarter, the whole western world”—the American West, he meant—“should pour forth its sons to meet the invader and drive him back into the sea.” Jackson said he was counting on his friends and neighbors. “Let us demonstrate to our brethren in all parts of the Union that the people of Tennessee are worthy of being called to the defence of the Republic.”

Preparing for the journey south was a job in itself. Most of his men had never fought before; some had hardly been away from home. They required instruction on how to prepare for the campaign and what to bring. As this was a militia rather than a regular army, the men would supply most of their needs themselves. Jackson ordered the cavalry to report with sabers and pistols, the infantry with rifles. The noncommissioned officers and men must come with blankets. All would furnish their own uniforms. As winter was approaching, these should be supplemented by foul-weather gear.

The men responded enthusiastically, but one thing after another kept the expedition from departing. Many of the recruits simply lacked weapons; Jackson wrote to Washington pleading for “500 swords and 250 cases of pistols.” The War Department issued notes to pay the men, but the Nashville economy lacked the money—and confidence in the government scrip—to convert the notes into cash. The problem wasn’t merely a matter of accounting; the men needed real money to purchase supplies for the campaign and to provide for their families in their absence.

Jackson fretted the more with each delay. “The success of military men depends on celerity of movement and ought to be like lightning,” he grumbled. He solved the money problem, or rather deferred it, by shaming a local banker into advancing a portion of the troops’ pay in hard currency. And he decided to march without the swords and pistols, hoping they would catch him en route.

J
ust before leaving he bade Rachel good-bye. She had observed the approach of war with an ambivalence born at once of her personal experience on the frontier, which inclined her to endorse whatever measures were necessary to end the Indian threat, and her love for the man who would lead the Tennessee troops into battle, which made her wish the war might never come. When it did arrive, she took greater charge of affairs at the Hermitage, freeing Jackson to concentrate on raising the militia. And as he prepared to head south, she gave him a miniature of herself for a keepsake.

“I shall wear it near my bosom,” he promised. But the gesture, though deeply appreciated, was unnecessary. “My recollection never fails me of your likeness.” Jackson wasn’t especially religious at this stage of his life, but Rachel was, and he knew it eased her fears when he spoke in religious terms. “We part but for a few days, for a few fleeting weeks, when the protecting hand of Providence, if it is his will, will restore us to each other’s arms. In storms, in battles, amidst the raging billows, recollect his protecting hand. . . . Let us not repine; his will be done.” To the extent he considered the matter, Jackson believed that heaven smiled on America’s cause; for this reason Rachel need not worry. “The god of battle and justice will protect us. Hence then dispel any gloomy ideas that our separation may occasion. Bear it with Christian cheerfulness.”

And say good-bye to young Andrew. “Kiss him for his papa.”

A
t the beginning of 1813—the calendar had turned before Jackson’s army finally got away—the motive force of choice for travelers from Tennessee to the “lower country” along the Mississippi remained what it had been for travelers since the Stone Age: gravity. Jackson and his men piled into thirty boats at Nashville and headed down the Cumberland. The weather tested the novices among the troops. “We had an extreme hard frost last night, and many of us who were not accustomed to being exposed slept badly,” wrote one of the expeditioners on the second day out. Ice clogged the Cumberland and closed some of its tributaries. But even winter occasionally smiled. “The morning burst forth in all the radiance of a clear sun, shining on the white frosted trees, which bended over the stream of the Cumberland. It was cold, but the sun suffused his warmth.” Mishaps weren’t many yet startled those to whom they occurred. One boat developed a leak and sank beneath its cargo of men, who crowded into another boat. At a Sunday service held aboard a third boat, the superstructure collapsed under the weight of the congregation.

Where the Cumberland met the Ohio, the ice delayed the fleet for four days. After the ice cleared and the boats set off again, the weather closed in. “It rained, hailed, and snowed all this day and night,” the chronicler of the voyage recorded on January 25. The men—or at least their diarist—got a thrill at the Mississippi. “Who can withhold his emotions while viewing the beauties of this august river, this Father of Waters? It is the grand reservoir of the streamlets from a thousand hills! . . . The productions of every climate are destined to float on its bosom!” To see the great river was to know why it must be defended, why it must remain American.

Passage on the Mississippi was swift but dangerous. Snags lurked just below the surface. A boat hit a “sawyer,” which ripped its hull and started it filling with water. For a horrifying moment all on board appeared doomed. “But Providence held the destiny of those men by a hair, and made Captain Martin the instrument of their salvation. . . . He was propelled as it were by instinct. His men rowed with Herculean strength.” They reached the shore with seconds to spare.

A south wind warmed the men but increased their labors, for now all put oars to water to maintain their pace. On February 16 they reached their goal. “On our landing at Natchez the strand was crowded with spectators welcoming the largest army that ever appeared in view of Natchez.” The next day the army made its grand entrance into the town. “We excited very general attention of the inhabitants, by whom we were treated with distinguished politeness, and also by all the officers both civil and military whom we met with.”

M
ost wars are fought by fits and starts; “hurry up and wait” has been the soldier’s motto for centuries. America’s War of 1812 fit the pattern, especially in the West. Jackson had been out of touch during the month of the voyage, but on reaching Natchez he received a letter from James Wilkinson, who commanded American forces in the West from headquarters in New Orleans. Jackson still distrusted Wilkinson; if Burr’s accomplice had been in cahoots with the Spanish, why not with the British? Jackson’s doubts disposed him to read Wilkinson’s letter with close skepticism, especially once he caught its gist. Wilkinson ordered Jackson to remain at Natchez till further notice. The British hadn’t arrived on the coast, Wilkinson explained, and so the services of the Tennessee volunteers weren’t required there. Moreover, positive reasons existed for keeping the soldiers’ distance from the lower river, starting with the hazard to their health as the warm season neared and the possibility that their services would be required in Florida, to which approach was easier from Natchez than from New Orleans. Wilkinson’s tone was reasonable and respectful. He gave no hint of having heard all the nasty things Jackson had said about him regarding the Burr conspiracy. “If it is in my power to add to the comfort and accommodation of the band of patriots under your orders, it is only necessary to point out the mode to me,” he told Jackson.

Jackson doubtless scanned this letter several times for evidence of ulterior motives. If Wilkinson possessed them, they weren’t to be found here, and Jackson had no choice but to acquiesce in the army general’s directive. He did point out that it contradicted previous orders from Washington, “the substance of which is to proceed to New Orleans and there await the orders of Government.” But he would accept Wilkinson’s judgment and do as told. “In the meantime I will be happy to communicate with you on the public safety and defence of the lower country, and will move my troops to any point best calculated for this object.” He hoped they wouldn’t have to wait long for new orders. “My wish is to keep them employed in active service, as indolence creates disquiet.”

Jackson occupied his troops as best he could. They drilled, cleaned their weapons, practiced their shooting, and packed and repacked their kits to be able to march at a moment’s notice. Meanwhile Jackson wondered what Wilkinson was up to and whether the War Department was deliberately slighting the militia in favor of its own soldiers. Since the Revolutionary War, Americans had gone to battle in two columns: the regulars and the militia. The former considered themselves superior in training and discipline, the latter in courage and initiative. There was something to each stereotype yet more to the fact that the regulars were raised by the national government while the militia were mustered by the states. In wartime the national government claimed command of all forces, which was why Jackson took orders from Wilkinson. But the tension never disappeared, and the abiding constitutional struggle over sovereignty—were the states supreme or the nation?—played itself out in the ranks of the military.

Jackson’s suspicions of the army intensified dramatically upon receipt of a letter from John Armstrong, the recently appointed secretary of war. There was something wrong with the letter, as Jackson could tell from the start. It was dated January 5, although Jackson knew that Armstrong hadn’t been sworn in until February. This might have been a simple misdating. But the substance of the letter was what was truly bizarre. “The causes for embodying and marching to New Orleans the corps under your command having ceased to exist, you will on receipt of this letter consider it as dismissed from public service,” Armstrong said. There was no further explanation, only a directive to deliver to General Wilkinson any equipment or other property acquired at public expense. And a single line that hardly counted as gratitude: “You will accept for yourself and the corps the thanks of the President of the United States.”