Two horses were procured. One, Mrs. Jackson rode herself. Robert was placed on the other, and held in his seat by some of the prisoners to whom Mrs. Jackson had just given liberty.
Behind the sad procession poor Andrew dragged his weak and weary limbs, bare-headed, bare-footed, without a jacket, his only two garments torn and dirty.
The forty miles of lonely wilderness to the Waxhaws were nearly traversed, and the fevered boys were expecting in two hours more, to enjoy the comfort of home, when a chilly, drenching rain set in. The smallpox had reached that stage when a violent chill proves wellnigh fatal. The boys reached home and went to bed.
In two days Robert Jackson was dead, while Andrew was a raving maniac. But the mother’s nursing and his own strong constitution brought Andrew out of his peril, and set him on the way to slow recovery.
James Parton (Retold)
AN ORPHAN OF THE REVOLUTION
Andrew Jackson was no sooner out of danger, than his courageous mother resolved to go to Charleston, a distance of nearly two hundred miles, and do what she could for the comfort of the prisoners confined on the reeking, disease-infested prison-ships.
Among the many captives on the ships, suffering hunger, sickness, and neglect, were Mrs. Jackson’s own nephews and some of her Waxhaw neighbours. She hoped to obtain their release, as she had that of Andy and Robert.
She arrived at Charleston, and gained admission to the ships. She distributed food and medicines, and brought much comfort and joy to the haggard prisoners.
She had been there but a little time when she was seized by ship-fever. After a short illness she died. She was buried on the open plain, and her grave was lost sight of. Her clothes, a sorry bundle, were sent to her boy at the Waxhaws.