In October of 1788, a little company of immigrants arrived in Tennessee. The star of empire, which is said to move westward, had not yet illumined Nashville, and it was one of the dangerous points “on the frontier.”
The settlement was surrounded on all sides by hostile Indians. Men worked in the fields, but dared not go out to their daily task without being heavily armed. When two men met, and stopped for a moment to talk, they often stood back to back, with their rifles cocked ready for instant use. No one stooped to drink from a spring unless another guarded him, and the women were always attended by an armed force.
Col. John Donelson had built for himself a blockhouse of unusual size and strength, and furnished it comfortably; but while surveying a piece of land near the village, he was killed by the savages, and his widow left to support herself as best she could.
A married daughter and her husband lived with her, but it was necessary for her to take other boarders. One day there was a vigorous rap upon the stout door of the blockhouse, and a young man whose name was Andrew Jackson was admitted. Shortly afterward, he took up his abode as a regular boarder at the Widow Donelson’s.
The future President was then twenty-one or twenty-two. He was tall and slender, with every muscle developed to its utmost strength. He had an attractive face, pleasing manners, and made himself agreeable to every one in the house.
The dangers of the frontier were but minor incidents in his estimation, for “desperate courage makes one a majority,” and he had courage. When he was but thirteen years of age, he had boldly defied a British officer who had ordered him to clean some cavalry boots.
“Sir,” said the boy, “I am a prisoner of war, and I claim to be treated as such!”
With an oath the officer drew his sword, and struck at the child’s head. He parried the blow with his left arm, but received a severe wound on his head and another on his arm, the scars of which he always carried.
The protecting presence of such a man was welcome to those who dwelt in the blockhouse—Mrs. Donelson, Mr. and Mrs. Robards, and another boarder, John Overton. Mrs. Donelson was a good cook and a notable housekeeper, while her daughter was said to be “the best story teller, the best dancer, the sprightliest companion, and the most dashing horsewoman in the western country.”
Jackson, as the only licensed lawyer in that part of Tennessee, soon had plenty of business on his hands, and his life in the blockhouse was a happy one until he learned that the serpent of jealousy lurked by that fireside.