John Coffee, by land. By the
middle of February all were united at Natchez, Mississippi, where the
expedition was halted to await further orders. Week after week passed
by, and finally, late in March, to the general's rage and disgust, he
heard from the Secretary of War that the causes of the expedition had
ceased to exist, and that he was to consider his command "dismissed from
the public service"--and not one word as to any provision for getting
the men home!

Jackson's resolution was instantly taken and firmly carried out. He
refused to disband the men at Natchez, and marched them home, pledging
his own credit for the necessary expenses. His course commanded the
approval of the State and won him the devotion of the men. It was the
first of many occasions on which, while acting as a military officer, he
dared to do the thing he thought to be right, no matter how irregular it
was. On the journey home, his soldierly behavior in trying circumstances
won him his famous nickname. The men spoke of him as being "tough as
hickory," and so came to call him "Hickory," and finally, with
affection, "Old Hickory." Before he reached Nashville he again offered
his command for service in Canada, but no reply came. In May, he
dismissed it, and it seemed as if he were not going to have any
soldier's career at all.

Benton, who had served in the expedition as an aid, went to Washington
and with difficulty persuaded the War Department to pay the expenses of
the march from Natchez. When he returned to Nashville, it was to find
that in a duel between Jesse Benton, his brother, and one Carroll, the
general had acted as Carroll's second. A bitter quarrel between Jackson
and the Bentons followed; before it ended, Jackson swore "by the
Eternal" he would horsewhip Thomas Benton on sight. They met at a
Nashville hotel. Jesse Benton was there, and also John Coffee and
Stokeley Hays, friends of Jackson's. There was a rough-and-tumble fight.
Thomas Benton fell down a stairway; Jesse Benton was stabbed; Jackson
was shot in the shoulder and severely wounded. He was put to bed in the
old Nashville Inn, a famous hostelry of the time, and while he lay
helpless from a wound so ignobly won, the call was on its way which
should at last summon him to the work for which he was fittest. He was
to pass from an action such as no biographer can defend to deeds which
none can fail to praise. Jackson the duellist must give place to Jackson
the soldier. Yet all f