“Out there in history” we see him and his army, while recklessly rushing the redskins, become lost and bewildered in the vast primeval forest.  Day after day, they marched, but always in a circle; and each nightfall found them near where they broke camp in the morning.  Provisions failed, and hunger and thirst drove the soldiers frantic.  Every night they were pelted by bullets from unseen foes; stabbed and stung by innumerable insects; death for all stared them in the face; myriads of buzzards whirled above them, anxious for their prey.

While Jackson and his men, prostrated by heat, fruitless marching and discouragement, were praying for succor, suddenly the air seemed to be filled with human forms, which to their dazed minds appeared to be angels sent in answer to their fervent petitions.  Grotesque looking angels were these, swinging from limb to limb of the forest trees; but heavenly in their beneficence were the solemn-faced “Crackers,” as hundreds of them dropped to the ground and fed the exhausted warriors with “hog, hominy,” and water from packs strapped with their rifles to their dirty, sturdy shoulders—­“’nough sight better work for angels to do than loafin’ around the throne.”  While the feasting was in full swing, suddenly the haggard and careworn face of “Old Hickory” appeared in their midst.  “Boys,” said he, in his quick, incisive tones, “don’t eat any more, ’twill make you sick, stow it away in your haversacks.”  Then, turning to the Floridians, he quietly remarked, “Gentlemen, you saved our lives; many thanks!  Now we will do as much for you.  Where are the Injuns?” All the tree-climbers arose respectfully, saluted, and a tall, cadaverous-looking, long-haired, coon-skin-capped leader advanced, took the general by the hand, and slowly drawled,—­

“Ginrul, the red niggers air skulkin’ yender to the river, waitin’ to chaw up you uns tonight.

“Colonel Tompkins,” came the quick command, “climb your forces to the river, pour a volley into the red-skins at sundown, yell for all you’re worth, we’ll do the rest.”

“All right, Ginrul, we uns will be thar,” and away went the “flying Crackers,” facing unspeakable dangers as calmly as a child looks into the loving eyes of its mother.

Sometimes they glided noiselessly as the autumn leaves cleave the air over the pine-needle carpet of the forest, and when this was impossible on account of the bogs and morasses, which would swallow them down to unknown depths, they swung through the tops of the sighing pines until they had flanked their unsuspecting foes; then, just as the sun was setting, they struck terror to the hearts of the Seminoles by an unexpected volley from their rifles and by frightful yells,

  “As if all the fiends from heaven that fell,
  Had pealed the banner-cry of hell.”