\'Three Score Years and Ten\'
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Charlotte Ouisconsin Van Cleve >> \'Three Score Years and Ten\'
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Next day the chief sat up in bed, painted himself for death, sang his
death song, and, with those five fresh, bloody scalps about his neck,
lay down and died calmly and peacefully in the comfortable hope, no
doubt, of a welcome in the "happy hunting grounds," prepared by the
"Good Spirit" for all those Indians who are faithful to their friends,
and avenge themselves upon their foes.
A few years ago, I told this story to another "Little Six." "Old
Shakopee," as he lay with gyves upon his legs, in our guard house at
Fort Snelling, awaiting execution for almost numberless cold-blooded
murders, perpetrated during the dreadful massacre of '62. He
remembered it all, and his wicked old face lighted up with joy as he
told me he was the son of that "Little Six" who made so brave a run
for his life, and he showed as much pride and pleasure in listening to
the story of his father's treacherous conduct, as the children of our
great generals will do some day, when they read or hear of deeds of
bravery or daring that their fathers have done.
_CHAPTER XI._
The incident recorded in the preceding chapter occurred in June, 1827,
and in the autumn of the same year two companies of our command were
ordered to Prairie du Chien to strengthen the garrison there, in
anticipation of trouble with the Indians. One of these was Company
"C", commanded by our father; the other company was in command of
Captain Scott.
We had become so attached to a home so filled with peculiar and very
tender associations that our hearts were sad indeed when we bade "good
bye" to all, and from the deck of the steamer took our last look at
the beloved fort where we had lived so many years. In later years when
passing the spot where we bade farewell to the flag which floated over
headquarters on that bright morning long ago, I involuntarily look up
at the beautiful banner still waving there, and a tender, reverential
awe steals over me, as when standing by the grave of a friend long
buried.
We had hardly been a year at Fort Crawford when my father was detailed
on recruiting service, and ordered to Nashville, Tennessee. This was
in 1828, memorable as the year of the presidential campaign which
resulted in the election to that high office of General Andrew
Jackson. When our friend Mr. Parton was writing his "Life of
Jackson," I gave him, at his request, my impressions as a child, of
the great man, with whom we were daily and intimately associated, and
now transfer those impressions from that great work, "Parton's Life of
Jackson," to the pages of this unpretentious record of past times.
At the time referred to, our family boarded at the "Nashville Inn,"
kept by a Mr. Edmonson, the home of all the military officers whom
duty or pleasure called to Nashville. It had also been for a long time
the stopping place of General Jackson and his wife, whenever they left
their beloved "Hermitage" for a temporary sojourn in the city. Eating
at the same table with persons who attracted so much attention, and
meeting them familiarly in the public and private sitting rooms of the
hotel, I of course felt well acquainted with them, and my
recollections of them are very vivid even now. The General's
appearance has been so often and correctly described that it would
seem almost unnecessary to touch upon it here; but it will do no harm
to give my impressions of him.
Picture to yourself a military-looking man, above the ordinary height,
dressed plainly, but with great neatness; dignified and grave--I had
almost said stern, but always courteous and affable; with keen,
searching eyes, iron-gray hair standing stiffly up from an expansive
forehead; a face somewhat furrowed by care and time, and expressive of
deep thought and active intellect, and you have before you the General
Jackson who has lived in my memory from my childhood. Side by side
with him stands a coarse-looking, stout little old woman, whom you
might easily mistake for his washerwoman, were it not for the marked
attention he pays her, and the love and admiration she manifests for
him. Her eyes are bright, and express great kindness of heart; her
face is rather broad, her features plain, her complexion so dark as
almost to suggest a mingling of races in that climate where such
things sometimes occur. But withal, her face is so good natured and
motherly, that you immediately feel at ease with her, however shy you
may be of the stately person by her side. Her figure is rather full,
but loosely and carelessly dressed, with no regard to the fashions of
the day, so that, when she is seated, she seems to settle into
herself, in a manner that is neither graceful nor elegant. I have seen
such forms since, and have thought I should like to experiment upon
them with French corsets, to see what they would look like if they
were gathered into some permanent shape. This is Mrs. Jackson. I have
heard my mother say, she could imagine that in her early youth, at the
time the General yielded to her fascinations, she may have been a
bright, sparkling brunette, perhaps may have even passed for a beauty;
but being without any culture, and out of the way of refining
influences, she was at the time we knew her, such as I have described.
Their affection for each other was of the tenderest kind. The General
always treated her as if she was his pride and glory, and words can
faintly describe her devotion to him. The "Nashville Inn" was at this
time filled with celebrities, nearly all warm supporters of the
General. The Stokes family, of North Carolina, were there, particular
friends of his; the Blackburns, and many other old families, whose
names have escaped my memory. I well recollect to what disadvantage
Mrs. Jackson appeared, with her dowdyfied figure, her inelegant
conversation, and her total want of refinement, in the midst of this
bevy of highly-cultivated, aristocratic women; and I recall very
distinctly how the ladies of the Jackson party hovered near her at all
times, apparently to save her from saying or doing anything which
might do discredit to their idol. With all her disadvantages in
externals, I know she was really beloved. She was a truly good woman,
the very soul of benevolence and kindness, and one almost overlooked
her deficiencies in the knowledge of her intrinsic worth and her real
goodness of heart. With a different husband, and under different
circumstances, she might have appeared to greater advantage, but there
could not be a more striking contrast than was manifest in this
dignified, grand-looking man and this plain, common-looking little
woman. And the strangest of it all was, the General did not seem at
all aware of it. She was his ideal of every thing that was good, and
loving, and true, and, utterly unconscious of any external
deficiencies, he yielded her the entire homage of his own brave, loyal
heart. My father visited them more than once at the Hermitage. It was
customary for the officers of the army to do this, as a mark of
respect to the General, and they frequently remained at their
hospitable mansion several days at a time. The latch-string was always
out, and all who visited them were made welcome, and felt themselves
at home.
An anecdote which my father told us, characteristic of Mrs. Jackson,
impressed my young mind very forcibly. After the evening meal at the
Hermitage, as he and some other officers were seated with the worthy
couple by their ample fireplace, Mrs. Jackson, as was her favorite
custom, lighted her pipe, and having taken a whiff or two, handed it
to my father, saying, "Honey, won't you take a smoke?"
The enthusiasm of the people of Nashville for their favorite has been
descanted upon, years ago. I remember well the extravagant
demonstrations of it, especially after the result of the election was
known. I walked the streets with my father the night of the
illuminations and saw but two houses not lighted up, and these were
both mobbed. One was the mansion of Judge McNairy, who was once a
friend of Jackson, but for some reason became opposed to him, and at
that time was one of the very few Whigs in Nashville. On that
triumphant night the band played the hymn familiar to all, beginning:
"Blow ye the trumpet blow," and ending: "The year of Jubilee is come,
return ye ransomed people home." This certainly looked like deifying
the man they delighted to honor, and I remember it seemed very wicked
to me. When the old man finally started for Washington, a crowd of
ladies were assembled on the piazza of the hotel, overlooking the
Cumberland river to "see the conquering hero go." I mingled with them
and distinctly remember hearing one lady say she had had a good-bye
kiss from the General, and she should not wash it off for a month. Oh!
what a noise there was! A parrot, which had been brought up a
democrat, was "hurrahing for Jackson," and the clapping of hands, the
shouting, and waving of handkerchiefs have seldom been equalled. When
the steamboat passed out of sight, and all realized that he was really
gone, the city seemed to subside and settle down, as if the object of
its being was accomplished.
But the sad part of my remembrances, is the death of Mrs. Jackson.
Early one bright pleasant morning my father was putting on his uniform
to go with the other officers then in the city, to the Hermitage to
escort the President-elect to Nashville. Before he had completed his
toilet a black man left at the door a hand-bill announcing Mrs.
Jackson's death, and requesting the officers to come to the Hermitage
at a time specified, with the usual badges of mourning, to attend her
funeral. She had died very suddenly at night, without any apparent
disease, it being very generally supposed that her death was
occasioned by excess of joy at her husband's election. When it was
discovered that she was dead, the grief-stricken husband could not be
prevailed upon to part with her body, but held it tightly in his arms
until almost forced from his embrace.
This news caused great commotion. Many ladies went out from the city
to superintend the funeral arrangements, and displayed more zeal than
judgment by arraying the body in white satin, with kid gloves and
slippers. Pearl ear-rings and necklace were likewise placed upon it;
but, at the suggestion of some whose good sense had not entirely
forsaken them, I believe, these ornaments were removed. The day of the
funeral, proving damp and drizzly, the walk from the house to the
grave was thickly laid with cotton for the procession to pass over.
Notwithstanding the grief displayed by the friends of this really good
and noble woman, on account of her sudden death, it was supposed by
many, that after all, they felt it a relief; for it had been a matter
of great anxiety how she would appear as mistress of the White House,
especially as some of her warm, but injudicious friends, had selected
and prepared an outfit for the occasion, more suitable for a young and
blooming bride than for a homely, withered looking old woman.
During the war of the rebellion, as the Fifth Division of the Army of
the Cumberland was marching from Gallatin to camp near Nashville, the
General in command arranged that myself and daughter, who were
visiting the army and keeping with them from day to day, should call
at the Hermitage, as the troops passed near. An escort was furnished
us, and we turned off in our ambulance at the nearest point. We soon
reached the great gate, and, passing up the avenue of dark, sombre
evergreens, to the broad piazza of the historic old mansion, were
received by the hostess, the wife of General Jackson's adopted son.
Our reception, while not uncivil, was certainly frigid, and we had
expected nothing more cordial from those who called us their enemies.
After a short, constrained conversation, we were shown the General's
room, and some portraits of distinguished people on the walls, and
were then conducted to the tomb at the foot of the garden, where
husband and wife lie side by side under a canopy supported by marble
pillars and shaded by magnolia trees, whose rich, glossy leaves and
royal white blossoms made the sacred spot a lovely resting place for
the old man and his beloved Rachel. On the tablet, which covers her
remains, we read the following inscription, prepared by her husband:
"Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President
Jackson, who died the twenty-second of December, 1828, aged sixty-one.
Her face was fair; her person, pleasing; her temper, amiable; her
heart, kind; she delighted in relieving the wants of her fellow
creatures, and cultivated that divine pleasure by the most liberal and
unpretending methods. To the poor, she was a benefactor; to the rich,
an example; to the wretched, a comforter, to the prosperous, an
ornament; her piety went hand in hand with her benevolence; and she
thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good. A being so gentle
and so virtuous, slander might wound but could not dishonor. Even
death, when he tore her from the arms of her husband, could but
transport her to the bosom of her God."
At his own special request, the tablet which marks the spot where he
rests, has only this simple record:
"GENERAL ANDREW JACKSON.
_Born on the 15th of March, 1767;_
_Died on the 8th of June, 1845._"
Among the notable persons whom we frequently met during the year of
our sojourn in Nashville, was Samuel Houston, since so thoroughly
identified with the early history of Texas. He was at that time moving
in gay society, was called an elegant gentleman, was very fine looking
and very vain of his personal appearance; but domestic troubles
completely changed his whole life, and leaving his wife and family, he
abjured the world and went into exile, as he termed it. While we were
in Smithland, Kentucky, to which place our father had been ordered
from Nashville, he stopped with us on his way to the wilderness, and
excited our childish admiration by his fanciful hunter's garb and the
romance which surrounded him. I remember, too, that he begged a fine
greyhound and a pointer from my brother, who gave them up, but not
without a great struggle with himself, for he loved them,--little
thinking then, dear boy, that this man, fantastically clad in
buckskin, would one day, as President of Texas, repay him amply by
delivering him from a great peril.
I record here a reminiscence of Smithland which stamps that little
town, and its surroundings, indelibly upon my memory. One day, as my
brother and I were at play in front of the recruiting office, which
was situated on the one long street, near the river bank, a steamboat,
with its flag flying, came down the Ohio and rounded to at the wharf.
As it made the turn, we noticed that the deck was crowded with
negroes, and we heard them singing some of their camp meeting hymns in
a way to touch all hearts. The strain was in a minor key, and, as the
poor creatures swayed their bodies back and forth and clapped their
hands at intervals, we were strangely moved; and when, the landing
being effected, and the gang-plank arranged, they came off, _chained
in pairs_, and were marched, still singing, to a shed prepared for
them, we could not keep back the tears. The overseer, a great strong
man, cracking his "blacksnake" from time to time, to enforce
authority, excited our strong indignation. All this is an
impossibility now, thank God, but then it was a cruel, dreadful
reality. Like cattle, they were penned for the night, and were to be
kept there for a day or two, till another boat should take them to New
Orleans to be sold for the cane brake and the cotton field. They had
been bought by the dealer in men and women, who had them in charge, at
the slave pen in Washington, the capital of the United States. For
aught I know, Uncle Tom may have been among them, destined for the
genial, easy-going St. Clare and finally to pass into the hands of
Legree, the brute, who was to whip him to death. The next morning a
bright mulatto woman surprised us, as we were at breakfast, by coming
into our room and begging my father to purchase her. I never knew how
she managed to do this, I only know she stood before our free, happy
household pleading most earnestly, said she was not a field hand, was
a good house servant in her master's family where she was born and
raised, and had been sold, "because massa died, and de family was too
poor to keep me; I'se a fustrate cook, and 'd sarve you faithful; and,
oh, mistis," turning to my mother, "I'se lef' little chillun in de ole
Virginny home, and if you buys me, may be I might see 'um again
sometime." But it could not be, and the poor sorrowing mother went
back to the gang, whose breaking hearts were pining for home and dear
ones they could never again behold. And one morning they were driven
onto another boat, and passing slowly out of sight, sang, as they
sailed down the river to their doom, "swing low, sweet chariot," etc.
_CHAPTER XII._
CINCINNATI.
From this Kentucky town, his two years of service as recruiting
officer having ended, our father was ordered to Fort Howard, Green
Bay; but, being desirous that his children should have the advantage
of the schools in Cincinnati, which at that time were considered
exceptionally excellent, he established us in that city in a pretty
home of our own, and for the first time the family was separated, he
going alone to his post, while mother and children remained in Ohio.
In 1829 Cincinnati was very different from the great city which now
spreads out over the beautiful hills, and extends miles on "La Belle
Riviere." It was a pretty, flourishing, clean town, and for us it was
a delightful home, the dense smoke from the innumerable industries,
now hanging like a pall over the valley, was not known then, and the
atmosphere was clear and bright. Nicholas Longworth was the great man
then; his strawberries and his beautiful gardens were famous, and his
sudden rise from comparative poverty to enormous wealth, mostly by
successful ventures in real estate, was marvelous, such instances
being rare in those days. He was an eccentric, but very kind-hearted
man, very good to the poor, and he had many warm friends. A few years
later he turned his attention to the culture of grapes, and made
Cincinnati famous for its catawba and other wines bearing the
Longworth brand.
There were many others whose names could be given and of whom even
then the young city was justly proud. Dr. Drake, the eminent surgeon
and beloved physician; Rev. Dr. Joshua L. Wilson, the Boanerges of
Presbyterianism; Dr. Samuel Johnson and Dr. Aydelotte, the
hard-working and vigilant watchmen on the Episcopal watch towers;
Judge Bellamy Storer, the distinguished jurist; Edward Mansfield, the
great journalist; Salmon P. Chase, then the energetic and promising
young lawyer, years afterward Chief Justice of the United States, and
many others whose lives are written in the "History of Cincinnati."
From the long list I select a few names of those with whom our family
was intimately associated: Major David Gwynne, a former Paymaster in
the army, and my father's life-long friend; Judge Burnett, our near
and highly-esteemed neighbor; Dr. John Locke, my honored teacher for
four years; Alexander Kinmont, the eccentric Scotchman and most
thorough educator of boys; the Groesbecks, the Lytles, the Carneals,
the Kilgours, the Piatts, the Wiggins,--all of whom bore a prominent
part in the early formative days of the beautiful city.
Edward Mansfield, who did so much to shape the literary taste of
Cincinnati and to promote its interests in many ways, deserves more
than a mere mention of his name. He was the son of Jared Mansfield,
Professor at West Point Military Academy and Surveyor General of the
Northwest Territory. He graduated at West Point in 1819, and was
appointed Lieutenant of Engineers, but, at the earnest solicitation of
his mother, resigned and turned his attention to legal pursuits. He
practiced law for a while in Cincinnati in partnership with Mr.
Mitchell, who afterwards became so famous as professor of astronomy.
But finally Mr. Mansfield devoted himself to literary and scientific
investigations, and published several books and essays of great value.
In 1845 he wrote "The Legal Rights of Women," and year after year some
biography or history from his fertile pen came to light, and was
welcomed and appreciated by the reading public. In 1836 he became
editor of the "Cincinnati Chronicle," afterwards of the "Chronicle and
Atlas," and in 1857 of the "Gazette." "As an editor and contributor he
was remarkable for his impartiality and fairness, and was one of the
most extensive newspaper writers in the country. He supported the Whig
party with great ability, and no one in his day did more for the
triumph of the Republican party. His memoirs, published by himself in
his seventy-eighth year, extending over the years from 1803 to 1843,
are of great public interest."
The Asiatic cholera visited the United States for the first time in
1832, and its ravages in Cincinnati were terrible. Business was in a
great measure suspended, schools were closed for a time, and the air
was full of "farewells to the dying and mournings for the dead," but
after a time the dreadful scourge passed away, leaving an indelible
impression on all, and the old order of things was resumed. In 1833 we
left our pleasant home in Cincinnati and went to Fort Winnebago, on
the Fox River, Wisconsin. This was just at the close of the Black Hawk
war, during which my father commanded at Fort Howard, Green Bay, and
had some pretty sharp experiences. On our way to our new station we
stopped at Fort Crawford, Prairie du Chien, several days to rest and
prepare for our journey of nearly a week overland to Fort Winnebago,
and were entertained at the hospitable quarters of Colonel Zachary
Taylor, then in command of the post. Our host and hostess were so
cordial and made us so comfortable and at home, Miss Knox Taylor was
so lovely, and little Dick and Betty such delightful playmates, that
we enjoyed our visit there most fully, and have always remembered it
with great pleasure. And when we learned only a short time after our
arrival at our journey's end that Lieutenant Jefferson Davis had
carried off our beautiful Miss Knox, in spite of her parents'
watchfulness and her father's absolute commands, our grief and
indignation knew no bounds. The pair went to St. Louis and were
married. The Colonel and his wife never recovered from the shock,
which seemed to blight the happiness of their home. They never saw
their child again. There was no reconciliation between the parties,
and the beloved, misguided daughter died in six months after leaving
home. He who treacherously beguiled her away from her happy home is an
old man now, and must soon go to his account. He stands out
prominently against a dark background, and no one will envy him the
recollection of that deed or the place he occupies in the history of
the country to which he proved false in her hour of trial.
It is said that the broken-hearted father never spoke to him for
years, but that on the battle-field in Mexico, Captain Davis made a
successful movement, and in passing him, General Taylor, as commanding
officer of the division to which he was attached, said, "that was well
done, Captain," and perhaps he never spoke to him afterwards.
When our delightful sojourn with the kind friends at Fort Crawford
came to an end, we started in our open vehicle, which had been made as
comfortable as possible for our long ride of several days to our final
destination, and, as there were no public houses on the road, our
dependence for accommodations, was upon the thinly scattered settlers,
who for the most part were "roughing it," and had few conveniences,
scarcely any comforts to offer the weary traveler.
One night the halt was called in front of a low log house of two
rooms, connected by an enclosed passage way, which served the purpose
of an eating room.
The mistress of the house was the wife of a steamboat captain, but
owing to some irreconcilable difference of sentiment, she refused to
live with him, and she was miserably poor. In pity to her sad case,
her husband had sent, by my father, some articles of clothing which he
hoped might be of use to her, and this errand served as our
introduction. She was a tall, fine looking woman, and received and
welcomed us with the air of a princess dwelling in a palace. She was a
niece of James Fennimore Cooper, and her grand and stately mien, in
the midst of such squalid poverty, would have been amusing, but for
the pity of it.
Her father, a very old man, lay dying of consumption in one of the
rooms, and my little sister and I were assigned for the night to a bed
directly opposite the death couch. The one tallow candle on the stand
beside him, guttering down in its socket, the fitful light from the
vast fireplace, which made strange fantastic shapes and shadows on the
rough dark walls, and the clear cut profile of the dying man, with the
erect dignified figure beside him, rising occasionally to arrange his
pillow, or give him water, impressed us most painfully, effectually
driving sleep from our eyes, which, under a kind of fascination, gazed
intently on what they would fain not see. From time to time the dogs
outside howled dismally, and this forced night-watch was made most
hideous by the occasional hooting of an owl, or the prolonged baying
of hungry wolves in the distance. We were very weary, and at last
fell into a troubled slumber, but were haunted even in sleep by the
ghastly face across the room and the weird shadows on the wall, 'till
aroused by mother's morning kiss, and cheery call to breakfast, which
banished all disturbing dreams, and waked us to the realities of a
bright sunshiny morning, and the morning meal which our grand hostess
had prepared for us to eat before we left this most uninviting
caravansary. This repast consisted of potatoes boiled "au natural,"
and some kind of drink which she announced as coffee, and which she
served with the grace of a queen, dispensing the delicacies of her
table.
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