There was much in this country life to interest an active boy like Andrew Jackson. Wherever there were no cotton fields there were thick pine woods full of wild turkeys and deer to be had for the shooting. The farmers of the Catawba country took their cotton to market in immense covered wagons, often needing a week to make the journey, and camping out every night. Boys were in demand to help load the cotton, and gather wood for the camp-fires, and many a time Andrew was hired to travel to market with a farmer and his wife and young children, and many a night he spent in a little opening in the woods eating supper and sleeping close to a blazing fire of pine knots that lighted up the trees for yards around.
The farmers were not apt to leave their wives and children at home, because either the British or the Indians might sweep down upon the district at any time. So quite a party would travel together, and that added to the fun. Such a life, with plenty of horses to ride, and turkeys to hunt, and journeys to make, with only occasional schooling, appealed strongly to Andrew.
In August, 1780, when young Jackson was twelve years old, the American General Gates was defeated by the British, and Cornwallis marched into the country of the Catawba. Many families left their homes and went north to be safe from the enemy, and among others Mrs. Jackson and her sons determined to seek a safer home. Andrew's mother and his brother Robert left on horseback, and a day or two later Andrew followed them.
The people all through that desolate part of the country were anxious for news of the war, especially for word of fathers or brothers in the army, and they stood by the roads and asked news eagerly of any chance horseman. At one lonely house a little girl was stationed at the gate to question travelers. About sunset one day she saw a tall, gawkish boy come riding along the road, astride of one of the rough, wild, South Carolina ponies. His bare legs were almost long enough to meet under the pony; he wore a torn wide-brimmed hat which napped about his face. His scanty shirt and trousers were covered with dust, and his face was burned brown and worn with hardship. He had ridden so far and was so tired that he could scarcely keep his seat.
"Where you from?" cried the girl, as the boy reined up.
"From down below, along Waxhaw Creek."
"Where you going?"
"Up along north."
"Who you for?"
"The Continental Congress."