Chapter 1 -

Hunter Jones and the War of 1776 and at Sea in the War of 1812

(Hospital) Mrs. O’Banion stood up. “I’ve got to get back to my kitchen. The lunch bunch will be coming in hungry soon, so I better get back to work. You boys take good care of Hunter, and tell me if there is any improvement or he comes out of his coma.”

Bailey stood up. “Me too. I’ve mules to water and stuff to do.” He thought for a minute and added, “I guess for awhile, until Hunter gets well, I’ll be back doing the general’s stuff again. Darn, and I was really enjoying being a muleskinner, too.”

“It may be a long while son.” Doctor Dudley added. “The swelling in his brain from that mule kick in the head may take some time to get right.”

“Don’t worry, Bailey.” Peg offered. “Now that we got a war brewing, there’ll be a lot of twelve year olds signing up. The general will have a new step-and-fetch-it in no time, and you’ll be back to skinning mules before you lose the touch.” Peg spit a stream of brown juice into the brass spittoon.

“Here. I got this from my tent.” Doctor Dudley handed Patch a newer newspaper. “If you boys are going to stay here with Hunter and read the paper, you’ll need the hottest news off the press. This one is only a few weeks old.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Patch said his mouth full of cinnamon roll. Everybody said his good-bye and left Patch and Peg alone with Hunter.

Patch looked at his cinnamon roll, to take a bite, and saw Peg busily rinsing his mouth out with cold coffee and spitting in to the brass spittoon.

“My gosh Peg that stuff is nasty.” Patch shivered. “You’d be better off sucking on toads.” Patch shivered again and put his cinnamon roll down instead of taking a bite. He shivered again and picked up the doc’s newspaper. He absently flipped through it then stopped. "Huh, it must be Andrew Jackson's birthday. Here is a short biography of our fiery red-headed seventh President, Old Hickory." Patch took a sip of his coffee. “Hey Bailey, wait a second, come here. If this tells about the Indian Removal Act of 1830, it may answer your questions about where all the Indians came from that are fighting for the North and South. Patch read quietly to himself for a second then said, “It says here Andrew Jackson was born in 1767 and at age of 13 he and his older brother Robert joined the Continental Army and to fight in America’s War Of Independence, serving as orderlies to Colonel William Richardson.”

(Dream) “Get down, get down.” It was dark and someone was pulling on Hunter’s sleeve. “I told you to get down. Can’t you hear?”

Hunter looked at the boy pulling him down behind the corral fence. He was only a few years older than Hunter with a head of exploding red hair. “Are you Present Andrew Jackson?” Hunter asked, not believing his eyes.

“Do I look like a President?” The red head angrily pushed his face into Hunter’s and continued. “I’m 15 years old, you dork.”

Just then another boy slid in beside them. “Will you Magpies shut your beaks? I could hear you two jabbering all the way over to the barn.”



“Where you been Andrew?” The red headed boy pushed his face into the new arrival’s face and hissed in hushed tones. “I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. I thought you were dead or something.” He was now whispering loudly.

“Robert, we are in big trouble.” Andrew leaned in to the other two boys and whispered as quietly as he could. “The British are everywhere. Colonel Richardson has pulled his Minutemen out of camp just minutes before the Redcoats over ran it. I watched the whole thing from behind a grove of trees. I’m telling you we are in real big trouble. The British are as thick as ticks on a blue-tick hound’s back. If we stay here, we will be found. So we have to split up and go in three different directions. Wait! Who are you?” Andrew looked at Hunter for the first time.

“My name is Hunter Jones. I’ve got the measles and was kicked in the head by a mule. I was…” But before Hunter could finish his sentence a bullet splintered the boards next to Robert’s face and all three boys dove face down into the dirt.

Within a heart beat the three boys were surrounded by a dozen or more soldiers dressed in bright red uniforms.

“Lieutenant, the spies are over here.” One of the soldiers said sticking his bayonet into Hunter’s back, far enough to hurt but not to draw blood.

“Good. Arrest them and put them in the prison camp with the other colonial trash.” The Lieutenant ordered his soldiers. He looked down at Hunter and kicked him hard in the ribs. “I’ll make you think ‘one nation under God’. After we starve you to death, you and all the others will wish you never came to ‘America, the home of the brave and the land of the free’.” With that he kicked Hunter in the ribs again and stormed away.

The next morning Hunter was awoken by a kick to his back. “You two. Get up. The mules need to be feed and watered.” The guard pulled Andrew up by the collar and pushed both of them out the front door.

As they walked across the dusty street toward the livery stables, the surly Lieutenant who had them arrested the night before almost ran them over with his horse, returning from his early morning ride in a full gallop.

An orderly quickly grabbed the horse’s reins as the Lieutenant dismounted and stood there slowly removing his gloves, glaring at the two boys coming toward him from across the street. When his sweaty horse accidentally pushed up against him, he pushed the horse away from him and then angrily punched the horse in the muscular flank of its hind leg with his fist. “You stupid beast.” He snorted. He started to bend down to pick up his dropped glove but instead he looked at Andrew and snarled, “You there, boy, pick up my glove.”

The guard pushed Andrew toward the Lieutenant. Andrew stumbled and stopped inches away from where the Lieutenant stood. He straightened up and with his cold steel blue eyes stared contemptuously into the Lieutenant’s face.

“I said pick up my glove, boy.” The Lieutenant snarled.

Andrew didn’t move.

“I said pick up the glove. Boy!” The Lieutenant hissed through tightly drawn lips.

Andrew didn’t move.

Then suddenly and without provocation the Lieutenant punched Andrew hard in the stomach.

Andrew bent over but did not fall.

“Now, pick up my glove. And while you are down there dust off my boots.”

No one moved. The air and the moment were charged with electricity as all eyes were on Andrew.

Andrew stood bent over for a long moment. Then suddenly and without warning Andrew spit on the Lieutenant’s boots.

Suddenly, the scene exploded into action. As the Lieutenant stumbled backwards, he grabbed and pulled out his sword from its sheath. That quick motion caused the horses to get spooked and the orderlies had a hard time holding them in check. Even the mules in the corral got spooked and went braying off nervously to the far side of their pen.

Everyone watching gasped and fell back, the moment frozen in time and space. All eyes were on the Lieutenant, as he looked down at his wet boot in total disbelief and then looked up at the culprit. By now Andrew was standing straight and tall, looking contemptuously back at the Lieutenant, again.

Within the fluttering of an eyelash the accomplished British swordsman slashed at the rebellious boy standing in front of him. With a reflex reaction Andrew fell backwards. But as he did the tip of the razor sharp sword slashed across his forehead. Blood gushed from the five-inch gash. The bleeding was so profuse that within a heartbeat he could not see the next swash of the Lieutenant’s sword as it gashed his up-lifted left hand.

Hunter grabbed the teetering fifteen year old as shock and loss of blood staggered his body.

“Get this rag tag rebel out of my sight.” The Lieutenant snarled. “One of these days you colonists will come to realize that the British are your friends and you will grow to love us.”

Through clenched teeth the tall red headed boy choked, “If I live to be 78, I’ll hate you British the rest of my life. Remember, sweet is the taste of vengeance,” with that Andrew Jackson collapsed to the dusty street.

(Hospital) “It says here.” Patch folded the newspaper and lifted it closer to his face. “Both Andrew and his brother Robert contracted smallpox while imprisoned, and Robert died days after his mother secured their release. Jackson then became an orphan at age 15. Jackson's entire immediate family died from wartime hardships that Jackson blamed upon the British, stoking his hatred for them even more.

“The Redcoat actually cut him on the forehead and hand?” Peg asked. “I guess I would hate the British the rest of my life too.”

“Well it looks like payback took a long time for Mr. Jackson.” Patch stopped reading and did some calculations in his head. “He was nearly 50 years old before he got his opportunity to defeat the British at the Battle of New Orleans. I guess, sweet is the taste of vengeance. He won the last battle of the War of 1812.”

“It says here when war erupted in 1812 with the British, Andrew Jackson was elected Major General in charge of the Tennessee Militia and was sent to subdue the Creeks who had teamed up with the British in Alabama..."

“I’m related to Dolly Madison.” Peg interrupted. “Did you know that in President Madison’s absence she had the good sense to haul off wagons loads of important and historical papers before the British attacked and burned the White House in 1812?”

(Dream) "What are you doing boy?" The big man asked excitedly.

"I don't know. I don't know." Hunter sputtered apologetically.

"Well, don't just stand there, grab the wheel and steer hard to the starboard, like I told you to."

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know which way the starboard is." Hunter said anxiously.

"To the right, boy, to the right!" The big man said pointing to the right of the massive sailing ship. “It’s easy to remember. You drink port wine with your left hand and you steer to the starboard with your right hand.” A moment passed. "Oh, give me the wheel." The big man huffed angrily, as he grabbed the giant wheel and spun it hard to the right. "What's wrong with you anyway?"

"I've got the measles and I've been kicked in the head by a mule." Hunter said, a knot rising in his throat and a tear coming to his eye.

"A mule? There are no mules out here on the high seas." Just as he said that a canon ball ripped through the main sails, sending wood splinter and rope pieces cascading down from above. Everyone on deck ducked down except for the big man holding the giant wheel hard to the right.

"Here mule boy, now hold this wheel until I order 'come about', then let it go and let it spin back to a forward course.”

Just as he said that another cannon ball ripped through the back sails, the middle sails and split into splinters the front mass, cutting the top ten feet of it off. The ropes and rigging kept the mass from tumbling down on the sailors below.

“Come about, sailor, come about.” The big man ordered Hunter. “We’ll just stop here.” He added disgustingly. “No way am I going to let the Brits tear-up my ship. They say they are looking for deserters but they really are trying to find a reason to confiscate my ship.” He looked out at the three British war ships shadowing his. “Watch, they will try to accuse me of carrying war cargo to their enemy, the French and Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Hunter let the wheel go as ordered and it spun like crazy then suddenly stopped as the ship stopped fighting the rudder and started to steer a straight course, slowing down as it lost the wind.

“Pull the sails, boys.” The big man ordered. And sailors all over the ship started untying ropes and letting the heavy canvases collapse in on themselves. They worked hard until all the sails were down and secured.

While all this was going on, Hunter held the wheel steady. Actually he just held onto the wheel to keep from falling. The seas were gentle but rolling. And as the big sailing ship rolled so did his stomach.

“Pull our colors to half mass boys and prepare a dingy.” Captain Perry ordered. “I’m going to talk to those Brits before they put a foot on my ship.” Then more quietly he muttered to himself, “I would like to think that ‘we have met the enemy, and they are ours' but right now it looks more like 'we have met the enemy, and we are theirs’."

Angry with himself and angrier at the situation, he glared over at Hunter, who was still clinging to the huge wheel, and snapped, “What’s your name mule boy?”

“Hunter Sir. Hunter Jones. I’m a infantry drummer.” Hunter looked around confused. “Is this the Civil War?”

“It’s more uncivil than civil if you ask me.” The big man pulled out his saber and inspected it absently. “It’s 1812 and we are at war so I guess you could call it the War of 1812. In the newspapers they are calling it America’s second War of Independence. We fought the Brits and won our liberty in 1776 and here it is 36 years later and we are at war with them again. Before we left port I read in the newspaper that the British have attacked Washington DC and have burned and sacked the White House. President Madison and Congress were forced to flee for their lives.” Captain Perry slammed his saber back into its black leather sheath, gnashed his teeth and almost spit, "We beat the British in 1776 and we will do it again in the War of 1812. Our victory, in this conflict, will prove once and for all our sovereignty as a nation, albeit a young one, yet one that is proudly independent and wholly self-governing. A country that can’t be bullied by a major sea power, or have outsiders agitating our Indian population against us or to trifle and try to redraw the boundary lines between Canada and America.”

“But Captain, we attacked Canada. It’s we who are trying to redraw the boundaries.” Helmsman Ragetti said, confused.

“That’s right.” Captain Perry spun around to address helmsman Ragetti full face. “What better time to get what is rightfully ours than when the Brits are busy trying to defeat Napoleon over in Europe?”

Just then the First Mate Joshamee Gibbs snapped a smart salute to the Captain. “Captain Perry, sir, your dingy is ready.”

“Good. Let’s get over there before they get here.”

“Bad news Captain. The boarding party has already arrived.” First Mate Gibbs added as he handed the Captain his dress hat. “And they are laughing and bragging.”

“Bragging about what?”

“It seems that the Duke of Wellington has defeated Napoleon Bonaparte in some little town in Belgium called Waterloo. The Brits are bragging that they will now have more troops to send over and squash the ‘rebellious colonies’, as they are calling us again.” First Mate Gibbs paused then added. “There is more bad news. The American troops got defeated as they tried to move into Canada and captured it through Detroit, the Niagara frontier and Lake Champlain toward Montreal.”

“Do you have any more bad news?” Captain Perry snapped. But before First Mate Gibbs could answer, the deck was swarming with British Royal Marines ordering everyone to stand along the gunwale, facing the open ocean with their hands in clear sight on the railing.

“What’s the meaning of this Lieutenant?” Captain Perry asked a Lieutenant who swaggered as he moved past his marines.

“The name’s Jollie, Lieutenant Jollie.” The Lieutenant answered as he swaggered over to Captain Perry and gave him a contemptuous kind of salute, disrespectful of the Captain’s rank.

“What’s the meaning of this Mister Jollie. This is an American vessel on the open seas. You nor the King’s Navy have any authority out here, sir.” Captain Perry challenged, letting the young Lieutenant’s disrespectful attitude pass.

“And your name, sir?” Lieutenant Jollie demanded.

“Oliver Hazard Perry. Captain Oliver…” The Captain was impolitely interrupted before he could finish his introduction.

“Are you related to Matthew Calbraith Perry?”

“Yes, I’m his older brother. Why?” Captain Perry asked quizzically.

“I’ll ask the questions here.” Lieutenant Jollie pulled in closer to Captain Perry and stuck a rude finger into his face and declared contemptuously, “You know Captain Perry the 'Orders in Council' allows us to institute extensive maritime blockades of European ports, preventing neutral ships like this one from helping the French’s war efforts. 'Orders in Council' gives us the right to stop any neutral vessels on the high seas to look for 'deserters', much like that lad you have standing next to you." Hunter pulled in closer behind Captain Perry.

"I understand that the British have defeated Napoleon at Waterloo.”

"Scuttlebutt. Loose talk among sailors too long at sea." Lieutenant Jollie looked off over the horizon not admitting nor acknowledging that the war with France may be over. "We are still looking for deserters." Lieutenant Jollie turned back and looked hard at Hunter. "Where you from boy?" The Lieutenant leaned in closer to Hunter.

“New Orleans. I mean Des Arc Arkansas. I mean.” Hunter stuttered, “I don’t know.”

“I know. With that accent you must be from the south, the south of England.”

“Sergeant Major, arrest this boy.” Lieutenant Jollie ordered the marine standing next to him.

“Wait.” Captain Perry said, pulling Hunter further in behind him. “I think you are taking this ‘impressment policy’ too far.”

“That’s your opinion, sir.” Lieutenant Jollie drew his pistol. “The King has the right to seize people or property for public service or use.” Sneering at Hunter, he added, “And I think we can find use for another deck hand.” Turning his attention back to the Captain he ordered, “So stand aside Captain Perry if you know what is good for you.” Lieutenant Jollie smirked to himself as the Captain yielded.

“Sergeant Major, knock the boy down and put shackles on his ankles.” Lieutenant Jollie laughed.

The Sergeant Major yanked Hunter out from behind Captain Perry. He grabbed Hunter by the throat and pulled his fist back, as if he was going to shoot an arrow. But just as he was ready to punch Hunter between the eyes, Hunter closed his eyes tightly, so as not to see it coming.

(Hospital) “It’s Friday Mr. Hunter.” The colored orderly mumbled at Hunter, as he fussed around the comatose twelve-year-old boy’s cot. “The week’s over and it’s time to change your sheets.”

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