He thought to weaken Jackson’s nerve, but little did he realize the real nerve of the man who was afterwards to send to death and defeat the troops that conquered Bonaparte.
There is no record of Jackson’s home-leaving, except that he started early and went quietly along, those two soldiers of the Revolution and of Indian warfare. If his wife knew it, she was not the woman to try to stop him. She had much of the stubborn, solemn, predestined Scotch-Irish nature of her husband. She was used to his fights, for he had many of them, and to her he was always right. She would not stop him if she could, and that no one ever stopped him she knew. There was the dignity of great love and respect between the two. They never questioned each other’s motives. The one never trespassed on the other’s world. She was intensely religious—of the Presbyterian predestined kind. If she kissed him good-bye, not an eyelash quivered, not a tremor of doubt or fear, and if she said anything, doubtless it was:
“Good-bye, Mr. Jackson. Of course you will kill him. God is on our side!”
If Dickinson and his crowd rode along with shouts and songs, and wild, reckless fun, very different was Jackson’s and Thomas Overton’s journey. They knew Jackson’s chances for death were five to one. He was an indifferent shot—all high-strung, nervous men are. He had but one chance, and he and Overton thought it out as calmly as ever generals planned a battle. For it was a battle—a battle of life and death, with the chances all against Jackson. It reminds me of the night before Hastings which Harold, the Saxon king’s, army spent in drink and song and cheer and wild hilarity. But down on the sandy beach William the Conqueror’s men spent theirs in solemn thought and silent sleep and prayer.
Little things count most in the crises of life and it was Dickinson’s talk at last that gave Jackson the plan of his fight.
“General,” said Thomas Overton, as they rode along, “I have been thinking of the only chance we have got. It’s a bitter pill, but it’s our only chance with a man who shoots as quick and true as Dickinson.”
Jackson was silent. He knew his second; that no gamer, truer man lived; that he was not only a soldier himself, but had been in many affairs of honor before; that he would let no chance escape him.
“You see, it is this way,” went on the second; “we have agreed on the mode of fighting, as you know. The distance is twenty-four feet. We will toss up for position. There will be no counting. Each man is to hold his pistol down by his side until the word fire is given, then each is to fire as he pleases.”
Jackson was still silent. He knew this was not to his advantage. But as the challenged party Dickinson’s second had the choice of weapons and conditions. He knew that Dickinson, expert shot that he was, needed no time to aim and fire, but that he himself did. Dickinson shot instantly, as a boy shoots a marble; no aim, but that true action of the hand and eye which come together by practice and long instinct. There is no aim that equals it—it is natural, it is the mark of the expert.
“Now I have thought it out. There is no chance for me to get the first shot. Dickinson can shoot quicker than you and with more chance of success. All you can do is to wait till he shoots and take your chance. If he wounds you or misses you take your time and kill him. If you try to shoot first, you will miss him and he will kill you. It’s hard, but it’s all we can do.”