Custer—his fate is yet fresh in the minds of the living. In the war between whites he was the equal of Wheeler. With as many men and far better equipped than Jackson ever dreamed that men could be, he attacked a mere handful of Indians compared to the great wilderness of them. Jackson marched into and conquered, and yet they killed Custer, and every man of his brave but unthinking force. “Twenty-five hundred men and thirteen hundred horses on the bluffs of the Tennessee,” writes Parton, “on the borders of the civilization, about to plunge into pathless woods and march, no one knew how far, into the fastnesses and secret retreats of a savage enemy! Such a body will consume ten wagon loads of provisions every day. For a week’s subsistence they require a thousand bushels of grain, twenty tons of flesh, a thousand gallons of whisky, and many hundredweight of miscellaneous stores.” Yet Jackson fed them, with little aid from any outside source, often eating nothing but parched acorns himself. His pathetic letters begging, commanding, beseeching the governors of Tennessee and Georgia for food for his troops are written with an ink of fire. “There is an enemy I dread more than I do the hostile Creeks,” he wrote, “and whose power, I am fearful I shall first be made to feel. I mean that meager monster, famine. I shall leave this encampment in the morning direct for Ten Islands, and hence with as little delay as possible to the junction of the Coosa and Tallapoosa, and yet I have not on hand two days’ supply of breadstuffs.” Hunger and mutiny—what would Custer and Crook and Canby and Miles have done had these been added to the Indians? He ate acorns, and with a single rifle barring the path of his starved and mutining troops, he literally bluffed and drove them on. Seeing it all clearly now, his victory over the Indians was the lesser one. Fighting Indians, fighting mutiny, fighting famine, fighting the terrible enervating, blood-sucking disease that preyed on his very vitals—this was the Andrew Jackson in the pitiless forests of that pitiless age, with one arm in a sling, sallow, bloodless and emaciated, resting his rifle across his horse’s neck in front of the column of starved and mutinous troops homeward bound and with eyes blazing, his grizzled hair bristling with fury, exclaiming: “By the Eternal, I will blow the first damned villain into eternity that advances another step! I will hold this fort if only two men will stay with me!”