They made a ragged, lonely little group. En route, even the weather turned against them. The fury of a violent storm of rain to which we were exposed for several hours before we reached the end of our journey caused the small pox to strike in and consequently the next day I was dangerously ill, Jackson recalled. Two days later Robert died. During his confinement in prison, Jacksons earliest biography said, Robert had suffered greatly; the wound on his head, all this time, having never been dressed, was followed by an inflammation of the brain, which in a few days after his liberation, brought him to his grave.
Two Jackson boys were now dead at the hands of the British. Elizabeth nursed Andrew, now her only living child, back from the precipiceand then left, to tend to two of her Crawford nephews who were sick in Charleston.
Jackson never saw her again. In the fall of 1781 she died in the coastal city tending to other boys, and was buried in obscurity. Her clothes were all that came back to him. Even by the rough standards of the frontier in late eighteenth- century America, where disease and death were common, this was an extraordinary run of terrible luck.
For Jackson, the circumstances of Elizabeths last mission of mercy and burial would be perennial reminders of the tenuous position she had been forced into by her own husbands death. First was the occasion of her visit to Charleston: to care for the extended family, leaving her own son behind. However selfless her motives she had nursed the wars wounded from that first Waxhaw massacre in the late spring of 1780 Elizabeth had still gone to the coast for the sake of Jacksons cousins, not her own children. The uncertainty over the fate of her remains was a matter of concern to Jackson even in his White House years. He long sought the whereabouts of his mothers grave, but to no avail. Perhaps partly in reaction to what he may have viewed as the lack of respect or care others had taken with his mothers burial, he became a careful steward of such thingsa devotee of souvenirs, a keeper of tombs, and an observer of anniversaries. The first woman he ever loved, his mother, rested in oblivion. The second woman who won his heart, Rachel, would be memorialized in stateliness and grandeur at the Hermitage after her death, and in his last years he would spend hours in the garden, contemplating her tomb. Bringing his mother home had been beyond his power. The story of Jacksons life was how he strove to see that little else ever would be.
Rachel Jackson believed her husband drew inspiration from his mothers trials. It was from her courage in facing what Rachel called many hardships while on this earth that Jackson obtained the fortitude which has enabled him to triumph with so much success over the many obstacles which have diversified his life.
Jackson often recounted what he claimed were his mothers last words to him. In 1815, after his triumph at New Orleans, he spoke of his mother to friends: Gentlemen, I wish she could have lived to see this day. There never was a woman like her. She was gentle as a dove and as brave as a lioness. Her last words have been the law of my life.
Andrew, if I should not see you again, I wish you to remember and treasure up some things I have already said to you: in this world you will have to make your own way. To do that you must have friends. You can make friends by being honest, and you can keep them by being steadfast. You must keep in mind that friends worth having will in the long run expect as much from you as they give to you. To forget an obligation or be ungrateful for a kindness is a base crimenot merely a fault or a sin, but an actual crime. Men guilty of it sooner or later must suffer the penalty. In personal conduct be always polite but never obsequious. None will respect you more than you respect yourself. Avoid quarrels as long as you can without yielding to imposition. But sustain your manhood always. Never bring a suit in law for assault and battery or for defamation. The law affords no remedy for such outrages that can satisfy the feelings of a true man. Never wound the feelings of others. Never brook wanton outrage upon your own feelings. If you ever have to vindicate your feelings or defend your honor, do it calmly. If angry at first, wait till your wrath cools before you proceed.
Oldest romance writer in the world dies aged 105. Books #124 and #125 to be published next year(Dec 10 2013) Ida Pollock, author of more than 120 books, and believed to be the world's oldest romantic novelist, has died at the age of 105.