I was only five pages into the preface for this book and I
thought I was in deep trouble. The author, from all other accounts one of the
foremost Jackson scholars of our time, is recalling a trip he made decades ago to
Spain to review some newly unearthed documents.
I was ecstatic. I could hardly believe my good fortune. What
made it so exciting was that here was a sizeable collection of letters written
to and from Jackson and the Spanish governor in Florida at the time of
Jackson’s seizure of Florida in 1818, and they included correspondence from one
Spanish official to another about the American invasion of their colony. I was
fascinated as I learned the history of my country as seen through the eyes of
aliens, and enemy aliens at that. And to my surprise and horror, I found that
they did not think Americans were heroic, generous, kind, trustworthy, or any
of those noble characteristics Americans believed about themselves in the
1970s. Quite the opposite. They saw them as thieving, murderous cut-throats,
out to steal their empire. I remember muttering to myself, as if responding to
the accusations, “You’ve got it all wrong; we’re the good guys.”
Upon reading that, I thought to myself, “This guy’s a
historian?” I dreaded the idea that I was in for a long (this book is actually
volume one of a three-volume biography on Jackson, all three volumes of which
are on my book shelf, courtesy of a long-expired membership in the History Book
Club) puff piece on the superior wisdom and nobility of this second generation
forefather who so righteously expanded the reach of the grand American
experiment.
Fortunately, it got better. But only to a degree.
The Professional
Historian
On one hand, Remini proves to be a capable historian,
skilled at placing his subject in the context of both his times and ours. For
example, here’s an honest and well-crafted character study from one of the
middle chapters. The occasion in question is Jackson’s decision to walk his
army back to Nashville from Natchez after being called up prematurely for the
war that would come in 1812.
Ironically, the disastrous journey to Natchez and back proved
a personal triumph for Jackson. All the things the volunteers admired about
their General were amplified before their eyes: the determination, the
fortitude, the personal courage, the strength of leadership, the personal
identity with their small successes and many hardships, the consideration, the
patience and understanding. What it all added up to was the fact that they
admired him and trusted him, and so if he said they would walk from Natchez to
Nashville, then they would do it.
But something else emerged on the painful road home. It was a
quality in Jackson’s character that is essential to an understanding of his
subsequent military successes. The quality had probably always been there but
now it suddenly billowed out into full view. That quality was will power. Not
the ordinary kind. Nothing normal or even natural. This was superhuman. This
was virtually demonic. This was sheer, total, concentrated determination to
achieve his ends. So if he determined to march his men back to Nashville he
would get them there even if it meant carrying every last one of the on his
back.
Andrew Jackson was not a great general. He was better than
most of the commanders available in 1812, but that hardly does him credit. What
distinguished him and basically made the difference between victory and defeat
on the battlefield was his absolute determination to win—at whatever cost. As a
consequence he was capable of extraordinary feats of courage and daring and
perseverance in the face of incredible odds. Nothing less than victory was
acceptable. Defeat was unthinkable.
Remini does well here, balancing the good with the bad,
reporting the facts as he uncovered them and understood them to be true. Yes,
Jackson was a special individual, but not necessarily and automatically a great
one. Like most people, he was a mix of talents and foibles—the only thing that
makes Jackson exceptional is the historical circumstances that filtered those
talents and foibles to the extent they did.
One thing I always find interesting about these massive
biographies of pivotal political figures is the treatment given to their
childhood and developmental years. The better historians stick to a clear, “just
report the facts” style, rarely making judgments about the role the trails and
traumas of youth had in shaping the adult. And again, Remini generally does a
good job here, albeit acknowledging that many previous Jackson biographers have
not.
Here’s an example. At fifteen, Jackson and his older
brother, Robert, were soldiers in the Revolutionary War, and they were taken
prisoner, where they both suffered from neglect and malnutrition. When they
were finally exchanged, their mother, Elizabeth, came to collect them.
Elizabeth blanched when she saw her sons, so wasted were they
by disease and malnutrition. Robert, in serious condition, could neither stand
nor sit on horseback without support. Elizabeth procured two horses, placed the
dying Robert on one and rode the other herself, keeping careful check on Robert
to prevent him from collapsing to the ground. Poor Andrew had to walk the
forty-five miles home barefoot and without a jacket, his body throbbing with
pain. On the last leg of the journey a driving rain drenched the trio. And that
was the final blow. The smallpox that had been raging within Andrew burst out
in the loathsome sores so typical of the disease. Somehow Elizabeth got her two
sons home and put them to bed. Two days later Robert Jackson was dead and his
brother delirious and in mortal danger.
Jackson survived (obviously), but as soon as he was strong
enough, his mother left him to help nurse other prisoners of war, including two
of her nephews, in Charleston. There, she caught cholera and quickly died
herself. Remini dutifully reports what others have assumed about Jackson’s
character as a result of this unfortunate incident.
He was fifteen at the time of his mother’s death and still
recovering from a serious illness. Did he resent his mother’s departure? Did he
regard it as abandonment? As rejection? As punishment? Did he think she cared
more about her nephews than her own son to leave him when he still needed her?
One writer contends that it produced in him a buried rage against his mother
for having abandoned him and removed her protection, that Andrew consequently
developed “an assertive self, mistrustful of dependence and suspicious of the
world.”
One writer contends that, but Remini?
One thing is certain: he suffered a staggering blow, one he
probably never understood, one he could never mention or discuss. If he did
feel rage against Elizabeth, he disguised it or rechanneled it. Nothing in his
writing suggests resentment against her. Nowhere does he blame her for
deserting him. Early biographers claim that he “deeply loved” his mother, which
may or may not be true. But they noticed something else which was definitely
true: he “imbibed a reverence for the character of woman.” He respected women
and treated them courteously—far beyond what was expected of him as a proper
gentleman. If he hated his mother, would he so revere “the characters of woman”?
Would he treat them with such marked respect and kindness?
Good questions. And like a good historian, since it is
ultimately conjecture, Remini allows to reader to formulate his own answer.
A Snarky Aside
Speaking momentarily about Jackson’s writings, I wanted to
quickly mention how incomprehensible some of them are—especially those (oddly)
in which he was trying his best to be understood. His written correspondence quite
simply atrocious. Here he is responding on a matter of honor:
Your sacrificing all private confidence by making publick my
private letter merits & receives my utmost indignation, Sir the baseness of
your heart in violating a confidenc reposed in you in an hour of intimate
friendship, should as I conceive it was between you and me, by the most solemn
obligation will bring down the indignation of the thinking part of mankind upon
you & the thunderbolt you were preparing for me will burst upon your own
head, it will occasion that part of mankind, that heretofore view’d you worthy
of publick confidence to pause a moment & reflect how far a man is worthy
of publick confidence who has violated all kind of private at the Shrine of
malice occasioned by goaded disappointment, the Western world will think for
themselves like freemen as they are & view the man who had made such
sacrifice as you have done, capable of betraying all publick confidence to
private interest.
To which I say, huh?
The Politics of
Statehood
So Remini is able to win me back after his stumble in the
preface through the obvious balance he is attempting to bring to his subject.
Those concerns recede into the background and I get more engaged with the
actual details of Jackson’s life. I discover that Jackson was one of only a
handful of influential men who helped shape and form the new state of
Tennessee. This is a fascinating section of the book and of Jackson’s life,
primarily because Tennessee was one of the first such states to be created and
admitted to the Union under the Federal constitution.
There were a lot of details to be ironed out and, seemingly like
every other event in our nation’s history, the partisan politics of their day—not
ours—drove most of them to their conclusion. An interesting case in point is
the question of Tennessean statehood itself. As Remini explains:
The problem was complicated further by the fact that 1796 was
a presidential election year. George Washington had had enough after eight
years in office; the verbal abuse he had suffered over the Jay Treaty was more
than he chose to endure. The Federalist Party put forward John Adams for the
presidency and the Republican Party nominated Thomas Jefferson. Since the
Republicans were popular along the frontier because of their strong states’
rights position and their commitment to the needs of the farmer, the
Federalists recognized that Tennessee’s admission to the Union would
automatically increase Jefferson’s electoral count. There was also sectional
rivalry in the presidential contest. Adams came from New England, Jefferson
from the South, and Tennessee, a southern as well as a western state, would
upset the balance.
As a result, there was a debate in Congress over the
validity of the census Tennessee had conducted to certify that they had enough
citizens to become a state. One may think that the issue at stake actually was
the validity of the census, since that’s what Senators and Representatives
argued about. But in fact it wasn’t. The issue was how many electoral votes
each party could garner, and the census was only the football that the two
teams kicked back and forth.
The House, where Republicans held the majority, liked the
census. The Senate, where Federalists held sway, didn’t. The compromise
eventually struck, revealed what was actually at stake. Tennessee would be
admitted, but with fewer electors than it would ordinarily be entitled to,
until after the federal census of 1800 (and the pending presidential election)
was conducted.
The more history I read, the more episodes like this jump
out at me. The modern American has lost an understanding of what truly
motivated his predecessors in taking the actions they did. To us, history is
nearly always just so many facts and figures. An understanding of the
underlying motivations not only opens up a much richer world, it helps us
realize that those long ago people were really not all that different from
their modern counterparts.
The Libertarian
Perspective on the Louisiana Purchase
Another parallel to modern times comes when Remini discusses
the Louisiana Purchase in 1803.
Although [President Thomas] Jefferson had grave doubts about
the constitutionality of the purchase, he knew the alternative should any
foreign power control New Orleans; it included the possibility of rebellion or
treason by citizens of the southwest. “To lose our country by scrupulous
adherence to written law,” he reasoned, “would be to lose the law itself, with
life, liberty, property and all those who are enjoying them with us; thus
absurdly sacrificing the end to the means.” Burdened with fears that he was
reducing the Constitution to a scrap of paper, he went ahead with the purchase
anyway. But he had no choice. The safety of the Union dictated it.
To which the libertarian streak in me replied sarcastically:
Of course. It’s always the “safety of the
Union” that’s at stake when Presidents trample on the Constitution.
But this situation actually did make me think. Despite my
kneejerk libertarianism, there is a larger point to be made. In a situation
where strict adherence to the Constitution would concretely result in the
destruction of the country, isn’t there an honest case to be made for the
government to transcend the shackles of its founding document?
I mean, if you take the long-view, then no. If you believe
that countries themselves should rise and fall rather than stain individual
liberty, then of course the answer is no. Then it’s strict adherence all the
way to the grave.
But if you believe the country in its current form should be
preserved—which I suppose all Presidents honestly do—then doesn’t it rationally
make sense to circumvent the Constitution from time to time, in order to
preserve the country that cherishes it? Can we say yes to that question without
that libertarian streak speaking up again? Doesn’t the Constitution define the
country? And doesn’t the country you’re trying to preserve cease to exist the moment
you circumvent that document?
It’s a tangled little political and philosophical puzzle,
one much easier to arbitrate in the abstract than in the hard reality of the
Louisiana Purchase, or the Civil War, or in the wake of 9/11.
But then Remini reveals another interesting note on the
Louisiana Purchase.
In fact Britain disputed—correctly—the legality of the
Louisiana Purchase. France had no right to sell it to the United States since
the Treaty of San Ildefonso of 1800, by which Napoleon had forced Spain to
surrender Louisiana to him, specifically stated that France would not sell or
otherwise alienate the territory without first offering to return it to Spain.
When Napoleon blithely ignored his own previous agreement with the Spanish
government and sold Louisiana to the United States, many other nations regarded
the action as illegal.
Didn’t know that. Not only did Jefferson violate the
Constitution when he purchased Louisiana from France, he evidently violated international
law as well.
The War of 1812 and
the Making of Andrew Jackson
Jackson’s story really accelerates with the War of 1812.
Today, we know almost nothing about this conflict, but to understand why it
made Jackson famous, you have to understand the delicate phase of America’s development
as it existed in the years before that war.
The country had entered the war with a desperate need to
prove its right to independence, but the last two years seemed to prove the
reverse, that the United States was only a temporary experiment in freedom,
that its independence was undeserved.
And on this crumbling stage, Jackson appears, leading American
troops to a smashing victory over the British at New Orleans. It was a lopsided
battle, and although Jackson admittedly deserves credit for capably leading it,
the effect that his victory had on his nation still seems out of proportion.
New Orleans demonstrated that the nation had the heart and
the will and the strength to roundly defeat its enemies and defend its freedom.
“The last six months is the proudest period in the history of the republic,”
asserted one newspaper. “We … demonstrated to mankind a capacity to acquire a
skill in arms to conquer ‘the conquerors of the conquerors of all’ as
Wellington’s invincibles were modestly stiled. … Who would not be an American?
Long live the republic! … Last asylum of oppressed humanity! Peace is signed in
the Arms of Victory!”
And Jackson gets all the credit.
The nation’s faith and confidence in itself had been restored
by General Andrew Jackson. He alone was responsible for giving the country back
its self-respect. He had “slaughtered” a magnificent British army—over 2,000
victims, a figure that seemed incredible at that time—and repelled the greatest
armada in history.
The American people, their self-confidence restored,
abandoned the need to prove their right to independence. Secure in the
knowledge that their freedom had been permanently won, they turned to the
important tasks of building a nation. Indeed “from that time on the Union had
less of the character of a temporary experiment,” something that might
disappear in a stroke. “The country had also won respect abroad, and was
recognized in the family of nations as it had not been before.”
In the public mind, all of this was associated with Andrew
Jackson—not simply because of the magnitude of his victory over the British
(although that was certainly important) but because the announcement of his
colossal feat immediately preceded the announcement of the conclusion of the
war. The tremendous boost to everyone’s morale that his accomplishment on the
battlefield provided was followed a few days later by the news of the peace
treaty—and people tended to fuse the two events together. The result was the
feeling that Andrew Jackson had come like some special messenger of the
Almighty to rescue His people and preserve their freedom. Small wonder that
Jackson’s place in the pride and affection of the American people lasted until
his death—and beyond. Small wonder that his popularity exceeded that of
Washington, Jefferson, or Franklin.
I think it’s critical to understand what this victory did
for Jackson—both for himself directly and, more importantly, for him in the
mind of his countrymen. His fame would help him go on to do other things—some good
and some not-so-good—but it was his victory at New Orleans that made him a
permanent fixture in the pantheon of American heroes.
The Great White
Father
Remini—I think correctly—gives Jackson credit, above all
others, for engineering the circumstances which would in time result in the
eviction of all native peoples from what is now the Eastern United States. It
is one of the things he goes on to do with the fame he won at New Orleans, and
the detailed history of the Indian wars he fought and the Indian treaties he
signed constitute the second half of Remini’s overall narrative. It is
sometimes a disturbing account to read, and it is here, I think, where I begin
to lose respect for Remini’s objectivity.
From a chronological perspective, the peace treaty that Jackson
negotiates at the end of The Creek War is the first nail in the coffin.
The Creek War and the resulting Treaty of Fort Jackson were
the beginning of the end not only for the Creek Nation but for all Indians
throughout the south and southwest. What Blount, Burr, and hundreds of others
had failed to do, Andrew Jackson accomplished. Millions of acres of choice land
had been ripped out of the Indian domain and placed under the auction hammer of
the land speculator. And the Indians must remove to get out of harm’s way—for
their own good. So the pattern of land seizure and removal was established.
Within twenty-five years the entire family of red men, Creeks, Cherokees,
Chickasaws, Choctaws, and Seminoles, were swept from the south and either buried
under the ground or banished to the remote western country beyond the
Mississippi River. And from start to finish the man most responsible for this
expansion of the American empire was Andrew Jackson.
In the long history of Indians in North America the Creek War
was the turning point in their ultimate destruction. The certain, the
inevitable, the irreversible turn toward obliterating tribes as sovereign
entities within the United States now commenced. The Creek Nation was
irreparably shattered. All other tribes would soon experience the same
melancholy fate.
It is a strange legacy for a man to have—lauded as he must
have been by his contemporaries and by several generations following, but now
coming more into infamous repute. Remini recognizes this, but it’s not clear
that he sympathizes with the more modern perspective. He absolutely does not
shy away from reporting Jackson’s obvious racism against the Indians. He tells
us how Jackson fought ceaselessly against them, viewing them as the gravest
threat to the productive growth and expansion of his country. And Remini
attributes this opposition not to hatred, but rather a strange and compelling
logic.
His logic was simple: Indians were savage and warlike because
they possessed too much land to roam in and therefore pursued “wandering habits
of life.” If the range of their activities were sharply restricted, their
errant habits would gradually subside “until at last, necessity would prompt
them to industry and agriculture, as the only certain and lasting means of
support.” And by being industrious like white men, Indians would eventually share
the blessings of civilized life. Thus, for the Indians’ own safety and welfare,
it was necessary to seize their property and restrict their movement.
It can easily be argued that this logic is a fraud, a ready
justification for theft—and that is true. But it is also true that Jackson and
westerners like him believed the argument. Later, in precisely the same way,
they would justify the removal of the Indian beyond the Mississippi River. The
argument was never simply invented to serve as a coverup. It was always there,
a part of their creed, a doctrine of incontestable truth.
Remini may be right in this regard. Jackson’s own statements
about the threat posed by the Indian, and his nation’s obvious and fundamental
right to oppose that threat, read like rhetoric many American use today when
talking about terrorists. A large number of Americans for all generations, it
appears, believed that the United States had and has the right to force other
cultures and nations to bend to its will. In many cases, now and then, force is
seen not just as necessary, but as the preferred alternative. Remini reports
that sometimes, rather than forcing Indians off desirable land, the chiefs were
paid to voluntarily relocate their populations.
The necessity of bribing the chiefs to obtain their land
disgusted Jackson. It was not his style. He much preferred having the United
States step in to impose its authority over the tribes, simply telling them
what they must do. If this could not be done, he said, then he wanted no part
of such negotiations. They revolted him.
Indeed, Andy. Why resort to base commerce when force is so
much more noble?
At a later point, Remini makes a critical observation about
Jackson’s view towards the Indians. Again, he steers carefully away from hatred
and racism.
The key to understanding Jackson’s attitude toward the Indian
is not hatred but paternalism. He always treated the Indians as children who
did not know what was good for them. But he knew, and he would tell them, and
then they must obey. If they refused, they could expect a fearful punishment
from a wrathful parent.
This may be a fair comment, but then I think, Remini undercuts
himself, and goes too far into excuse-making.
But there was nothing extraordinary about this paternalism.
It in no way demonstrated bigotry, racism, or any other prejudice against
Indians simply because they were Indians. Jackson was just as paternalistic
toward his soldiers. As long as they obeyed him, as long as they demonstrated
discipline and loyalty, he praised them without stint; but let them falter in
their duty and he could exact the supreme penalty.
More on that “supreme penalty” business below. But the key
difference here, of course, is that Jackson’s soldiers were placed under his
subservient command by the duly established ethics and practices of his own society.
To the best of my knowledge, the Indians were not, nor could legitimately be.
At this time, they constituted people of an independent community, as separate
from the people of the United States as those of France or Spain or Great
Britain.
Nor was this paternalism unique to Jackson. Any number of
white men, particularly government officials, practiced the same paternalistic
attitude toward the Indians. It was a very common approach and the accepted
mode of behavior. The Indians themselves adopted the language of paternalism
and frequently spoke of themselves as children of their father, the President.
This “Great White Father” moniker is most perplexing to me.
It may be true that the Indians adopted this terminology in both word and
thought, but if so, it was certainly thrust upon them by the paternalistic
attitude of men like Andrew Jackson. Read some of the formal statements he
issued and you will begin to see not just how paternalistic, but how
condescending and hostile the language was. Here’s how Remini describes the
Indian reaction when General Andrew Jackson was tasked with the conquest of
Florida. I’ve added the emphasis myself.
The appointment of Jackson as executioner threw the Indians into wild alarm. Many of those living
on the American side of the boundary within lands claimed by the United States
under the Treaty of Fort Jackson fled in
terror to Florida when they heard the dreadful news of his appointment. To
the Indians General Andrew Jackson had assumed the character and form of an evil spirit: He need only point at
them and they perished where they
stood.
“Great White Father” indeed. And how did Jackson feel about
this obvious mischaracterization of his intentions?
Jackson encouraged his reputation—not as executioner but as
stern father and wise judge who would protect his Indian children (he actually
believed he defended Indian rights) provided they obeyed him without question
and closed their ears to false friends and prophets like the English and
Spanish who encouraged them in their lawlessness.
The parenthetical comments indicate to me that Remini
believes Jackson was delusional—not just by our standards but by the standards
of his time. Which is odd, because although Remini does not offer Jackson any
absolution, he does entreat his readers not to judge him too harshly. Again, the
emphasis below is mine.
The frightful blows sustained by the Indians at the hands of
Andrew Jackson, supported by the United States government, in the destruction
of the Southern tribes have elicited appropriate criticism and indignation from
latter-day Americans. But to understand the meaning and significance of
Jackson’s actions, one must view them in the context of the nineteenth century,
not that of the late twentieth century. It
cannot be ignored or forgotten that a powerful need existed throughout the
country during Jackson’s lifetime to subdue the Indians and expel them from
territory that was believed to be essential to national expansion and the
defense of the country. Jackson was not only a product of that need but the
man most responsible for fulfilling it. His military skill and undeviating determination
combined to annihilate the Indian tribes and propel thousands of Americans
across the south and west. His decree, more than any other, forever separated
the white and red races.
Surely, no higher purpose can be served than national
expansion and defense. I think Germany might have felt the same justification
in 1937. But, more importantly, the observation that shatters Remini’s whole
argument is this. Since when does paternalism lead to annihilation? And annihilation
not by accident but by design? Does the father which to destroy his children?
Is genocide really what’s best for them?
Yet Another Novel I’ll
Never Write
Finally, it’s not unusual when
reading one of these historical biographies for me to stumble across a minor
episode that strikes me with the uniqueness of its human story, filling me
momentarily with the desire to turn it into my next great novel. First it was
Teddy Roosevelt and his son Kermit and the time they spent together on the
River of Doubt. Then it was John and John Quincy Adams crossing the Atlantic
for the first time on the Boston. Then it was Sarah Ellis Dorsey and the life
she led and the lives she nurtured at Beauvoir. Now, it’s General Andrew
Jackson and a soldier named John Woods.
During the period of Jackson’s determination to instill
absolute discipline in his troops there occurred an incident that would haunt
Jackson throughout his military and political life, an incident that convinced
people, and indeed engraved it forever in their minds, that Andrew Jackson
could be a ruthless, pitiless killer.
Could you ask for a more dramatic theme? Imagine an elderly
Jackson, at the end of life and finally past his ability to influence his world
and the men who populated it, still plagued with this reputation, scorned and
feared by friends and neighbors alike. Looking back on the event, the story
opens thus…
John Woods was hardly eighteen years of age when he enlisted
in the militia. He belonged to a company that had caused considerable disciplinary
problems, although apparently Woods himself took no part in the trouble. In any
event, the young man was standing guard one cold, rainy February morning. After
obtaining permission from an officer to leave his post, he went to his tent for
a blanket. There he found that his comrades had left him his breakfast, and he
calmly sat down to eat it. A few minutes later an officer entered the tent and,
using abusive language, ordered him to return to his post. Woods, who had
received his permission to leave his post from a different officer, refused to
obey the order. An argument ensued and the officer ordered Woods’s arrest. Then
the young man went berserk. He grabbed his gun and swore he would shoot the
first man to lay a hand on him. As the quarreling intensified, someone informed
Jackson that a “mutiny” was in progress.
The stage is set. What will our grizzled old hero do?
Returned as he is by narrative to the vim and vigor of youth?
The cry “mutiny” was electrifying. Jackson bolted from his
tent. “Which is the damned rascal?” he shouted. “Shoot him! Shoot him! Blow ten
balls through the damned villain’s body!” In the meantime Woods had been
persuaded to give up his gun and submit to arrest.
An impulse, yes. But justified, no? A rank traitor within
his midst? How else should a commander react?
Most soldiers thought nothing much would some of the
incident. Such things had happened before and the offender was usually
dismissed without pay or drummed from the camp. Then, too, militiamen were
special; they had rights no others enjoyed—such as freedom from capital
punishment for mutinous actions. But Jackson was determined to make an example
of Woods.
Of course he was. Rights of man? Posh! He flaunted my
authority over him! He broke the chain of command!
He had Woods courtmartialed on a charge of mutiny. The young
man pleaded not guilty, but the court found unanimously against him and ordered
his execution. Several efforts were made to win clemency for Woods, but the
stern commander turned a deaf ear. On March 14, two days after the trial, John
Woods was shot to death by a firing squad in the presence of the entire army.
As well he should have been. Let that be an example to the
others.
Jackson’s aide, John Reid, believed the execution had a “most
salutary effect” on the other men. “That mutinous spirit,” he wrote, “which had
so frequently broken into the camp, and for a while suspended all active
operations” had to be crushed once and for all and “subordination observed.”
“Painful” as the execution was to Jackson, “he viewed it as …essential to the
preservation of good order.” It produced “the happiest effect,” Reid reported.
“That opinion, so long indulged, that a militia-man was for no offence to
suffer death, was, from that moment, abandoned, and strict obedience afterwards
characterized the army.”
Here, here. Serves the blackguard right. But…
Many years later, when Jackson sought the presidency of the
United States, the circumstances of Woods’s death were recounted in newspapers
around the country in attempts to prove that Old Hickory was a butcher who
could have imposed a milder sentence for Woods’s momentary rebelliousness but
chose instead to snuff out his life.
Petty newspaper scribblers! What do they know of leading men
into battle?
The punishment was indeed harsh. Under different
circumstanced Jackson might have been more lenient—although he was most
unpredictable—but his experiences of the previous December and January left his
mood and temper strict and unyielding in matters of discipline. Which was
understandable. He had kept a force in the field despite massive desertions and
the worst possible hardships. That experience toughened him. As far as he was
concerned, the troops must be made to understand their duty whatever the
circumstances—even if it meant the sacrifice of a young man’s life.
Exactly! You understand, don’t you. You must!
An Iron General had been fashioned by painful experience. If
possible Jackson’s already cold will and steely determination intensified. He
became a relentless, driving, indefatigable machine devoted to one solitary
purpose—the destruction of his country’s enemies.
And those enemies are everywhere, aren’t they? Even here on
this block with me, staring into my windows while avoiding my eyes on the
street. The vermin! Would I had the power now I had back then.
Maybe it’s a short story instead of a novel.