Excerpt
Chapter 1: Born on the Border
The wind was rough on the Carolina frontier in 1767. It didn’t wait for spring to get warmer or for people to settle in—it just rushed through the hills, snapping through the trees and stirring up red clay dust. That’s the kind of world Andrew Jackson was born into. Not a calm world, not an easy one. It was loud, raw, and full of change.
Andrew came into that world on March 15th. People still argue about whether he was born in North Carolina or South Carolina. Back then, the exact location didn’t seem important. There weren’t welcome signs or clear borders. His mother, Elizabeth, gave birth at a relative’s small cabin, just after traveling on horseback. Some say the cabin was in South Carolina. Others say it was barely across the border into North Carolina. Jackson always insisted he was from South Carolina. Maybe he really believed it. Maybe he just liked how it sounded better. Either way, it was clear that he was born right near the line—on the edge of two places and the edge of a growing country.
The place itself was called the Waxhaws. Not a city. Not even a town, really. Just a rough patch of settlements, farms, and scattered cabins. It was named after the Waxhaw people, a Native American tribe who had lived there long before any settlers arrived. By the time Andrew was born, the tribe had mostly disappeared, after suffering from war and disease. That’s part of what life was like in the frontier—it was constantly changing, sometimes in painful ways.
Andrew’s parents had come to America from Ireland. They were Scots-Irish, which means they were people whose ancestors had come from Scotland and then lived in Northern Ireland before crossing the ocean. They were tough, used to hard work, and didn’t expect life to be easy. They were also looking for a better future. Like many families back then, they had left their old home behind with hopes that the New World would give them a chance to own land and live free.
But the “New World” wasn’t really new—it had already been home to many different people for thousands of years. And even for newcomers like the Jacksons, the land wasn’t exactly handing out easy lives. Their small farm was plain, the soil rough and rocky. There was no electricity, no running water, no stores to pop into for bread or boots. Everything had to be made, bartered, or grown.
Three weeks before Andrew was born, his father died in an accident while moving logs. That meant Andrew would grow up never knowing his dad. He had two older brothers, but they were still just boys themselves. Their mother had to raise them on her own, in a place where winters could be cruel and food could be scarce.
Even as a baby, Andrew’s world was full of struggle. Not the kind of struggle you might have if you forget your homework or spill juice on the rug—but life-and-death kind of struggle. People fought over land, over survival, and over freedom. Neighbors helped each other, but they also argued and sometimes even dueled. There were stories of bear attacks, runaway horses, and buildings lost to fire. Kids learned early to look after themselves.
Being born in a place like that shaped Andrew in ways that would show up for the rest of his life. He didn’t grow up with books or tutors or fancy lessons. His learning came from experience—mostly from watching, listening, and doing. He didn’t always follow rules. He questioned things. He spoke up even when others told him not to. And once he believed something, it was hard to convince him to change his mind.
He also picked up a strong sense of loyalty. His family didn’t have much, but they had each other. His mother especially taught him to be proud of who he was and where he came from. She wanted him to be brave, to help others, and to stand firm when life got hard.
As the years passed, Andrew would face many more losses. But he also kept gaining things: courage, determination, and a kind of fierce energy that made people notice him. Whether they liked him or hated him, people didn’t forget him. That fierce energy had its roots in the Waxhaws—in that rugged place near the Carolina border where a mother gave birth to a baby boy during a stormy year, in a stormy time.
Life on the frontier in the late 1700s
The frontier wasn’t quiet. It crackled with noise—horses’ hooves thudding across dirt paths, blacksmith hammers ringing on iron, kids shouting as they chased each other barefoot through the grass, and roosters crowing before the sun had even peeked up. People didn’t move to the frontier to relax. They moved to survive, to build something from scratch, and maybe, just maybe, to claim a small slice of freedom.
Daily life didn’t come with instructions. Want water? You’d have to fetch it yourself—from a stream, a well, or a rain barrel. It wasn’t something that flowed from a faucet with the twist of a handle. If you needed food, you didn’t open the fridge—you opened the back door and hoped the garden had something ripe. If not, maybe your family had stored salted meat or cornmeal, or maybe someone had traded for eggs or dried apples. If your boots had holes, tough luck—someone in the house had to know how to patch them, or you’d be walking with soggy feet the next time it rained.
Kids had chores as soon as they were old enough to carry a bucket. Feeding animals, sweeping the cabin, hauling firewood, picking vegetables, scraping wax for candles—these weren’t weekend tasks. They were everyday responsibilities, and they were just as important as anything the adults were doing. A mistake—like forgetting to bring in the firewood before nightfall—could mean freezing through a cold evening. Even playtime had to be creative. No toys with batteries or blinking lights. A stick could be a sword. A corncob might become a doll. Rocks became marbles. And if you had a dog, well, that was one of the best companions around.
People built their homes from the land. Not just on it—from it. Logs, clay, stone, and straw came together to make rough cabins. These weren’t polished houses with fancy floors and glass windows. Many had dirt floors. Some had shutters but no real glass, just oiled paper that let in blurry light. In winter, cold air snuck in through the cracks. In summer, bugs did. Privacy didn’t exist like it does today. One room might be home to a whole family.
The frontier wasn’t just physically tough—it was risky. Wild animals still roamed the forests: bears, panthers, wolves. Settlers had to keep an eye out, especially when walking alone or venturing into the woods. But the most dangerous thing wasn’t animals. It was people. Different groups fought over land and survival. There were tensions between settlers and Native American tribes, especially as more settlers pushed westward and claimed land that had long been home to others. These conflicts led to violence, confusion, and sadness on all sides.
Weather was another constant challenge. Storms could blow through without warning, tearing off roofs or drowning crops. Droughts could shrivel cornfields. Cold snaps froze everything, including the water in your barrel and the ink in your writing quill—if you were lucky enough to own one. There were no weather apps or forecasts. People read the skies, the winds, the behavior of animals. Sometimes they got it right. Sometimes they didn’t.
Getting sick was scary. There were no hospitals nearby. If someone caught a fever or broke a leg, the family had to deal with it on their own—or travel miles on horseback for help. People used herbs, poultices, and old remedies passed down from relatives. Some of them worked. Some didn’t. Many kids didn’t survive past their fifth birthday, and diseases like smallpox and measles could wipe out entire villages.
And yet, people kept coming to the frontier. Why? Because there was room to grow. Land was cheaper, often free if you were willing to clear it and build something on it. There were fewer rules, fewer people telling you what to do. Families who had been poor in cities or in Europe could own their own farm. They could raise animals, grow food, and live on their terms. That hope pulled people in like a magnet—even when the risks were huge.
One thing that mattered more than anything on the frontier was your neighbors. Even though cabins might be far apart, people looked out for each other. If someone’s barn caught fire, others rushed to help. If a family had a new baby, neighbors might bring stew, blankets, or extra wood. In times of danger, communities came together to build forts, share information, or guard each other’s homes. You couldn’t really survive on your own—not for long.
People didn’t all dress alike, but there was a pattern. Clothes were tough, homemade, and meant to last. Shirts and dresses were stitched from linen, wool, or cotton—when it could be found. Buttons were precious. Shoes were patched and handed down. You could tell a lot about someone from their boots, their hat, and the wear on their coat. These weren’t fashion statements. They were signs of the work a person did and the road they had walked.
There weren’t many schools, and teachers were often people who knew just a bit more than the oldest kids in class. Books were rare. If a family had a Bible, that might be the only book in the house. Kids learned to read and write if their parents had time to teach them—or if a neighbor offered. Some kids didn’t learn until they were teenagers. Others never did. Survival came first. Letters could wait.
Yet, there was creativity everywhere. People told stories around fires. They played fiddles, sang songs from old countries, carved toys from wood, wrote notes with berry juice, and danced on packed dirt floors. On Sundays, many families rested and went to church services—often held outside or in someone’s barn. These were the moments that helped people remember why they stayed: even in the middle of hardship, there was joy, community, and pride in what they were building.
Living on the frontier meant every day was an adventure—but not the kind with treasure maps and pirate ships. It was the kind where you never knew what would happen next. You could fall through ice, discover a bear in your path, lose a whole season’s crops to a storm, or help deliver a neighbor’s baby. There were no shortcuts. No guarantees. And no one was going to rescue you.
The wind was rough on the Carolina frontier in 1767. It didn’t wait for spring to get warmer or for people to settle in—it just rushed through the hills, snapping through the trees and stirring up red clay dust. That’s the kind of world Andrew Jackson was born into. Not a calm world, not an easy one. It was loud, raw, and full of change.
Andrew came into that world on March 15th. People still argue about whether he was born in North Carolina or South Carolina. Back then, the exact location didn’t seem important. There weren’t welcome signs or clear borders. His mother, Elizabeth, gave birth at a relative’s small cabin, just after traveling on horseback. Some say the cabin was in South Carolina. Others say it was barely across the border into North Carolina. Jackson always insisted he was from South Carolina. Maybe he really believed it. Maybe he just liked how it sounded better. Either way, it was clear that he was born right near the line—on the edge of two places and the edge of a growing country.
The place itself was called the Waxhaws. Not a city. Not even a town, really. Just a rough patch of settlements, farms, and scattered cabins. It was named after the Waxhaw people, a Native American tribe who had lived there long before any settlers arrived. By the time Andrew was born, the tribe had mostly disappeared, after suffering from war and disease. That’s part of what life was like in the frontier—it was constantly changing, sometimes in painful ways.
Andrew’s parents had come to America from Ireland. They were Scots-Irish, which means they were people whose ancestors had come from Scotland and then lived in Northern Ireland before crossing the ocean. They were tough, used to hard work, and didn’t expect life to be easy. They were also looking for a better future. Like many families back then, they had left their old home behind with hopes that the New World would give them a chance to own land and live free.
But the “New World” wasn’t really new—it had already been home to many different people for thousands of years. And even for newcomers like the Jacksons, the land wasn’t exactly handing out easy lives. Their small farm was plain, the soil rough and rocky. There was no electricity, no running water, no stores to pop into for bread or boots. Everything had to be made, bartered, or grown.
Three weeks before Andrew was born, his father died in an accident while moving logs. That meant Andrew would grow up never knowing his dad. He had two older brothers, but they were still just boys themselves. Their mother had to raise them on her own, in a place where winters could be cruel and food could be scarce.
Even as a baby, Andrew’s world was full of struggle. Not the kind of struggle you might have if you forget your homework or spill juice on the rug—but life-and-death kind of struggle. People fought over land, over survival, and over freedom. Neighbors helped each other, but they also argued and sometimes even dueled. There were stories of bear attacks, runaway horses, and buildings lost to fire. Kids learned early to look after themselves.
Being born in a place like that shaped Andrew in ways that would show up for the rest of his life. He didn’t grow up with books or tutors or fancy lessons. His learning came from experience—mostly from watching, listening, and doing. He didn’t always follow rules. He questioned things. He spoke up even when others told him not to. And once he believed something, it was hard to convince him to change his mind.
He also picked up a strong sense of loyalty. His family didn’t have much, but they had each other. His mother especially taught him to be proud of who he was and where he came from. She wanted him to be brave, to help others, and to stand firm when life got hard.
As the years passed, Andrew would face many more losses. But he also kept gaining things: courage, determination, and a kind of fierce energy that made people notice him. Whether they liked him or hated him, people didn’t forget him. That fierce energy had its roots in the Waxhaws—in that rugged place near the Carolina border where a mother gave birth to a baby boy during a stormy year, in a stormy time.
Life on the frontier in the late 1700s
The frontier wasn’t quiet. It crackled with noise—horses’ hooves thudding across dirt paths, blacksmith hammers ringing on iron, kids shouting as they chased each other barefoot through the grass, and roosters crowing before the sun had even peeked up. People didn’t move to the frontier to relax. They moved to survive, to build something from scratch, and maybe, just maybe, to claim a small slice of freedom.
Daily life didn’t come with instructions. Want water? You’d have to fetch it yourself—from a stream, a well, or a rain barrel. It wasn’t something that flowed from a faucet with the twist of a handle. If you needed food, you didn’t open the fridge—you opened the back door and hoped the garden had something ripe. If not, maybe your family had stored salted meat or cornmeal, or maybe someone had traded for eggs or dried apples. If your boots had holes, tough luck—someone in the house had to know how to patch them, or you’d be walking with soggy feet the next time it rained.
Kids had chores as soon as they were old enough to carry a bucket. Feeding animals, sweeping the cabin, hauling firewood, picking vegetables, scraping wax for candles—these weren’t weekend tasks. They were everyday responsibilities, and they were just as important as anything the adults were doing. A mistake—like forgetting to bring in the firewood before nightfall—could mean freezing through a cold evening. Even playtime had to be creative. No toys with batteries or blinking lights. A stick could be a sword. A corncob might become a doll. Rocks became marbles. And if you had a dog, well, that was one of the best companions around.
People built their homes from the land. Not just on it—from it. Logs, clay, stone, and straw came together to make rough cabins. These weren’t polished houses with fancy floors and glass windows. Many had dirt floors. Some had shutters but no real glass, just oiled paper that let in blurry light. In winter, cold air snuck in through the cracks. In summer, bugs did. Privacy didn’t exist like it does today. One room might be home to a whole family.
The frontier wasn’t just physically tough—it was risky. Wild animals still roamed the forests: bears, panthers, wolves. Settlers had to keep an eye out, especially when walking alone or venturing into the woods. But the most dangerous thing wasn’t animals. It was people. Different groups fought over land and survival. There were tensions between settlers and Native American tribes, especially as more settlers pushed westward and claimed land that had long been home to others. These conflicts led to violence, confusion, and sadness on all sides.
Weather was another constant challenge. Storms could blow through without warning, tearing off roofs or drowning crops. Droughts could shrivel cornfields. Cold snaps froze everything, including the water in your barrel and the ink in your writing quill—if you were lucky enough to own one. There were no weather apps or forecasts. People read the skies, the winds, the behavior of animals. Sometimes they got it right. Sometimes they didn’t.
Getting sick was scary. There were no hospitals nearby. If someone caught a fever or broke a leg, the family had to deal with it on their own—or travel miles on horseback for help. People used herbs, poultices, and old remedies passed down from relatives. Some of them worked. Some didn’t. Many kids didn’t survive past their fifth birthday, and diseases like smallpox and measles could wipe out entire villages.
And yet, people kept coming to the frontier. Why? Because there was room to grow. Land was cheaper, often free if you were willing to clear it and build something on it. There were fewer rules, fewer people telling you what to do. Families who had been poor in cities or in Europe could own their own farm. They could raise animals, grow food, and live on their terms. That hope pulled people in like a magnet—even when the risks were huge.
One thing that mattered more than anything on the frontier was your neighbors. Even though cabins might be far apart, people looked out for each other. If someone’s barn caught fire, others rushed to help. If a family had a new baby, neighbors might bring stew, blankets, or extra wood. In times of danger, communities came together to build forts, share information, or guard each other’s homes. You couldn’t really survive on your own—not for long.
People didn’t all dress alike, but there was a pattern. Clothes were tough, homemade, and meant to last. Shirts and dresses were stitched from linen, wool, or cotton—when it could be found. Buttons were precious. Shoes were patched and handed down. You could tell a lot about someone from their boots, their hat, and the wear on their coat. These weren’t fashion statements. They were signs of the work a person did and the road they had walked.
There weren’t many schools, and teachers were often people who knew just a bit more than the oldest kids in class. Books were rare. If a family had a Bible, that might be the only book in the house. Kids learned to read and write if their parents had time to teach them—or if a neighbor offered. Some kids didn’t learn until they were teenagers. Others never did. Survival came first. Letters could wait.
Yet, there was creativity everywhere. People told stories around fires. They played fiddles, sang songs from old countries, carved toys from wood, wrote notes with berry juice, and danced on packed dirt floors. On Sundays, many families rested and went to church services—often held outside or in someone’s barn. These were the moments that helped people remember why they stayed: even in the middle of hardship, there was joy, community, and pride in what they were building.
Living on the frontier meant every day was an adventure—but not the kind with treasure maps and pirate ships. It was the kind where you never knew what would happen next. You could fall through ice, discover a bear in your path, lose a whole season’s crops to a storm, or help deliver a neighbor’s baby. There were no shortcuts. No guarantees. And no one was going to rescue you.