Youthful Adventures.
David at Gerardstown.--Trip to Baltimore.--Anecdotes.--He ships for
London.--Disappointment.--Defrauded of his Wages.--Escapes.--New
Adventures.--Crossing the River.--Returns Home.--His Reception.--A Farm
Laborer.--Generosity to his Father.--Love Adventure.--The Wreck of his
Hopes.--His School Education.--Second Love Adventure.--Bitter
Disappointment.--Life in the Backwoods.--Third Love Adventure.
The wagoner whom David had accompanied to Gerardstown was disappointed
in his endeavors to find a load to take back to Tennessee. He therefore
took a load to Alexandria, on the Potomac. David decided to remain at
Gerardstown until Myers should return. He therefore engaged to work for
a man by the name of John Gray, for twenty-five cents a day. It was
light farm-work in which he was employed, and he was so faithful in the
performance of his duties that he pleased the farmer, who was an old
man, very much.
Myers continued for the winter in teaming backward and forward between
Gerardstown and Baltimore, while David found a comfortable home of easy
industry with the farmer. He was very careful in the expenditure of his
money, and in the spring found that he had saved enough from his small
wages to purchase him a suit of coarse but substantial clothes. He
then, wishing to see a little more of the world, decided to make a trip
with the wagoner to Baltimore.
David had then seven dollars in his pocket, the careful savings of the
labors of half a year. He deposited the treasure with the wagoner for
safe keeping. They started on their journey, with a wagon heavily laden
with barrels of flour. As they were approaching a small settlement
called Ellicott's Mills, David, a little ashamed to approach the houses
in the ragged and mud-bespattered clothes which he wore on the way,
crept into the wagon to put on his better garments.
While there in the midst of the flour barrels piled up all around him,
the horses took fright at some strange sight which they encountered,
and in a terrible scare rushed down a steep hill, turned a sharp
corner, broke the tongue of the wagon and both of the axle-trees, and
whirled the heavy barrels about in every direction. The escape of David
from very serious injuries seemed almost miraculous. But our little
barbarian leaped from the ruins unscathed. It does not appear that he
had ever cherished any conception whatever of an overruling Providence.
Probably, a religious thought had never entered his mind. A colt
running by the side of the horses could not have been more insensible
to every idea of death, and responsibility at God's bar, than was David
Crockett. And he can be hardly blamed for this. The savages had some
idea of the Great Spirit and of a future world. David was as
uninstructed in those thoughts as are the wolves and the bears. Many
years afterward, in writing of this occurrence, he says, with
characteristic flippancy, interlarded with coarse phrases:
"This proved to me, if a fellow is born to be hung he will never be
drowned; and further, that if he is born for a seat in Congress, even
flour barrels can't make a mash of him. I didn't know how soon I should
be knocked into a cocked hat, and get my walking-papers for another
country."
The wagon was quite demolished by the disaster. Another was obtained,
the flour reloaded, and they proceeded to Baltimore, dragging the wreck
behind them, to be repaired there. Here young Crockett was amazed at
the aspect of civilization which was opened before him. He wandered
along the wharves gazing bewildered upon the majestic ships, with their
towering masts, cordage, and sails, which he saw floating there He had
never conceived of such fabrics before. The mansions, the churches, the
long lines of brick stores excited his amazement. It seemed to him that
he had been suddenly introduced into a sort of fairy-land. All thoughts
of home now vanished from his mind. The great world was expanding
before him, and the curiosity of his intensely active mind was roused
to explore more of its wonders.
One morning he ventured on board one of the ships at a wharf, and was
curiously and cautiously peering about, when the captain caught sight
of him. It so happened that he was in need of a sailor-boy, and being
pleased with the appearance of the lad, asked David if he would not
like to enter into his service to take a voyage to London. The boy had
no more idea of where London was, or what it was, than of a place in
the moon. But eagerly he responded, "Yes," for he cared little where he
went or what became of him, he was so glad of an opportunity to see
more of the wonders of this unknown world.
The captain made a few inquiries respecting his friends, his home, and
his past modes of life, and then engaged him for the cruise. David, in
a state of high, joyous excitement, hurried back to the wagoner, to get
his seven dollars of money and some clothes he had left with him. But
Myers put a very prompt veto upon the lad's procedure, assuming that he
was the boy's master, he declared that he should not go to sea. He
refused to let him have either his clothes or his money, asserting that
it was his duty to take him back to his parents in Tennessee. David
would gladly have fled from him, and embarked without money and without
clothes; but the wagoner watched him so closely that escape was
impossible.
David was greatly down-hearted at this disappointment, and watched
eagerly for an opportunity to obtain deliverance from his bondage. But
Myers was a burly teamster who swung a very heavy wagon-whip,
threatening the boy with a heavy punishment if he should make any
attempt to run away.
After a few days, Myers loaded his team for Tennessee, and with his
reluctant boy set out on his long journey. David was exceedingly
restless. He now hated the man who was so tyranically domineering over
him. He had no desire to return to his home, and he dreaded the hickory
stick with which he feared his brutal father would assail him. One dark
night, an hour or two before the morning, David carefully took his
little bundle of clothes, and creeping noiselessly from the cabin,
rushed forward as rapidly as his nimble feet could carry him. He soon
felt quite easy in reference to his escape. He knew that the wagoner
slept soundly, and that two hours at least must elapse before he would
open his eyes. He then would not know with certainty in what direction
the boy had fled. He could not safely leave his horses and wagon alone
in the wilderness, to pursue him; and even should he unharness one of
the horses and gallop forward in search of the fugitive, David, by
keeping a vigilant watch, would see him in the distance and could
easily plunge into the thickets of the forest, and thus elude pursuit.
He had run along five or six miles, when just as the sun was rising he
overtook another wagon. He had already begun to feel very lonely and
disconsolate. He had naturally an affectionate heart and a strong mind;
traits of character which gleamed through all the dark clouds that
obscured his life. He was alone in the wilderness, without a penny; and
he knew not what to do, or which way to turn. The moment he caught
sight of the teamster his heart yearned for sympathy. Tears moistened
his eyes, and hastening to the stranger, the friendless boy of but
thirteen years frankly told his whole story. The wagoner was a rough,
profane, burly man, of generous feelings. There was an air of sincerity
in the boy, which convinced him of the entire truth of his statements.
His indignation was aroused, and he gave expression to that indignation
in unmeasured terms. Cracking his whip in his anger, he declared that
Myers was a scoundrel, thus to rob a friendless boy, and that he would
lash the money out of him.
This man, whose name also chanced to be Myers, was of the tiger breed,
fearing nothing, ever ready for a fight, and almost invariably coming
off conqueror. In his generous rage he halted his team, grasped his
wagon-whip, and, accompanied by the trembling boy, turned back,
breathing vengeance. David was much alarmed, and told his protector
that he was afraid to meet the wagoner, who had so often threatened him
with his whip. But his new friend said, "Have no fear. The man shall
give you back your money, or I will thrash it out of him."
They had proceeded but about two miles when they met the approaching
team of Adam Myers. Henry Myers, David's new friend, leading him by the
hand, advanced menacingly upon the other teamster, and greeted him with
the words:
"You accursed scoundrel, what do you mean by robbing this friendless
boy of his money?" Adam Myers confessed that he had received seven
dollars of the boy's money. He said, however, that he had no money with
him; that he had invested all he had in articles in his wagon, and that
he intended to repay the boy as soon as they got back to Tennessee.
This settled the question, and David returned with Henry Myers to his
wagon, and accompanied him for several days on his slow and toilsome
journey westward.
The impatient boy, as once before, soon got weary of the loitering pace
of the heavily laden team, and concluded to leave his friend and press
forward more rapidly alone. It chanced, one evening, that several
wagons met, and the teamsters encamped for the night together. Henry
Myers told them the story of the friendless boy, and that he was now
about to set out alone for the long journey, most of it through an
entire wilderness, and through a land of strangers wherever there might
chance to be a few scattered cabins. They took up a collection for
David, and presented him with three dollars.
The little fellow pressed along, about one hundred and twenty-five
miles, down the valley between the Alleghany and the Blue ridges, until
he reached Montgomery Court House. The region then, nearly three
quarters of a century ago, presented only here and there a spot where
the light of civilization had entered. Occasionally the log cabin of
some poor emigrant was found in the vast expanse. David, too proud to
beg, when he had any money with which to pay, found his purse empty
when he had accomplished this small portion of his journey.
In this emergence, he hired out to work for a man a month for five
dollars, which was at the rate of about one shilling a day. Faithfully
he fulfilled his contract, and then, rather dreading to return home,
entered into an engagement with a hatter, Elijah Griffith, to work in
his shop for four years. Here he worked diligently eighteen months
without receiving any pay. His employer then failed, broke up, and left
the country. Again this poor boy, thus the sport of fortune, found
himself without a penny, with but few clothes, and those much worn.
But it was not his nature to lay anything very deeply to heart. He
laughed at misfortune, and pressed on singing and whistling through all
storms. He had a stout pair of hands, good nature, and adaptation to
any kind of work. There was no danger of his starving; and exposures,
which many would deem hardships, were no hardships for him. Undismayed
he ran here and there, catching at such employment as he could find,
until he had supplied himself with some comfortable clothing, and had a
few dollars of ready money in his purse. Again he set out alone and on
foot for his far-distant home. He had been absent over two years, and
was new fifteen years of age.
He trudged along, day after day, through rain and sunshine, until he
reached a broad stream called New River. It was wintry weather. The
stream was swollen by recent rains, and a gale then blowing was
ploughing the surface into angry waves. Teams forded the stream many
miles above. There was a log hut here, and the owner had a frail canoe
in which he could paddle an occasional traveller across the river. But
nothing would induce him to risk his life in an attempt to cross in
such a storm.
The impetuous boy, in his ignorance of the effect of wind upon waves,
resolved to attempt to cross, at every hazard, and notwithstanding all
remonstrances. He obtained a leaky canoe, which was half stranded upon
the shore, and pushed out on his perilous voyage. He tied his little
bundle of clothes to the bows of the boat, that they might not be
washed or blown away, and soon found himself exposed to the full force
of the wind, and tossed by billows such as he had never dreamed of
before. He was greatly frightened, and would have given all he had in
the world, to have been safely back again upon the shore. But he was
sure to be swamped if he should attempt to turn the boat broadside to
the waves in such a gale. The only possible salvation for him was to
cut the approaching billows with the bows of the boat. Thus he might
possibly ride over them, though at the imminent peril, every moment, of
shipping a sea which would engulf him and his frail boat in a watery
grave.
In this way he reached the shore, two miles above the proper
landing-place. The canoe was then half full of water. He was drenched
with spray, which was frozen into almost a coat of mail upon his
garments. Shivering with cold, he had to walk three miles through the
forest before he found a cabin at whose fire he could warm and dry
himself. Without any unnecessary delay he pushed on until he crossed
the extreme western frontier line of Virginia, and entered Sullivan
County, Tennessee.
An able-bodied young man like David Crockett, strong, athletic, willing
to work, and knowing how to turn his hand to anything, could, in the
humblest cabin, find employment which would provide him with board and
lodging. He was in no danger of starving. There was, at that time, but
one main path of travel from the East into the regions of the boundless
West.
As David was pressing along this path he came to a little hamlet of log
huts, where he found the brother whom he had left when he started from
home eighteen months before with the drove of cattle. He remained with
him for two or three weeks, probably paying his expenses by farm labor
and hunting. Again he set out for home. The evening twilight was
darkening into night when he caught sight of his father's humble cabin.
Several wagons were standing around, showing that there must be
considerable company in the house.
With not a little embarrassment, he ventured in. It was rather dark.
His mother and sisters were preparing supper at the immense fireside.
Quite a group of teamsters were scattered around the room, smoking
their pipes, and telling their marvellous stories. David, during his
absence of two years, had grown, and changed considerably in personal
appearance. None of the family recognized him. They generally supposed,
as he had been absent so long, that he was dead.
David inquired if he could remain all night. Being answered in the
affirmative, he took a seat in a corner and remained perfectly silent,
gazing upon the familiar scene, and watching the movements of his
father, mother, and sisters. At length supper was ready, and all took
seats at the table. As David came more into the light, one of his
sisters, observing him, was struck with his resemblance to her lost
brother. Fixing her eyes upon him, she, in a moment, rushed forward and
threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming, "Here is my brother David."
Quite a scene ensued. The returning prodigal was received with as much
affection as could be expected in a family with such uncultivated
hearts and such unrefined habits as were found in the cabin of John
Crockett. Even the stern old man forgot his hickory switch, and David,
much to his relief, found that he should escape the long-dreaded
whipping. Many years after this, when David Crockett, to his own
surprise, and that of the whole nation, found himself elevated to the
position of one of our national legislators, he wrote:
"But it will be a source of astonishment to many, who reflect that I am
now a member of the American Congress, the most enlightened body of men
in the world, that, at so advanced an age, the age of fifteen, I did
not know the first letter in the book."
By the laws and customs of our land, David was bound to obey his father
and work for him until he was twenty-one years of age. Until that time,
whatever wages he might earn belonged to his father. It is often an act
of great generosity for a hard-working farmer to release a stout lad of
eighteen or nineteen from this obligation, and "to give him," as it is
phrased, "his time."
John Crockett owed a neighbor, Abraham Wilson, thirty-six dollars. He
told David that if he would work for Mr. Wilson until his wages paid
that sum, he would then release him from all his obligations to his
father, and his son might go free. It was a shrewd bargain for the old
man, for he had already learned that David was abundantly capable of
taking care of himself, and that he would come and go when and where he
pleased.
The boy, weary of his wanderings, consented to the arrangement, and
engaged to work for Mr. Wilson for six months, in payment for which,
the note was to be delivered up to his father. It was characteristic of
David that whatever he undertook he engaged in with all his might. He
was a rude, coarse boy. It was scarcely possible, with his past
training, that he should be otherwise. But he was very faithful in
fulfilling his obligations. Though his sense of right and wrong was
very obtuse, he was still disposed to do the right so far as his
uncultivated conscience revealed it to him.
For six months, David worked for Mr. Wilson with the utmost fidelity
and zeal. He then received the note, presented it to his father, and,
before he was sixteen years of age, stood up proudly his own man. His
father had no longer the right to whip him. His father had no longer
the right to call upon him for any service without paying him for it.
And on the other hand, he could no longer look to his father for food
or clothing. This thought gave him no trouble. He had already taken
care of himself for two years, and he felt no more solicitude in regard
to the future than did the buffalo's calf or the wolf's whelp.
Wilson was a bad man, dissipated and unprincipled. But he had found
David to be so valuable a laborer that he offered him high wages if he
would remain and work for him. It shows a latent, underlying principle
of goodness in David, that he should have refused the offer. He writes:
"The reason was, it was a place where a heap of bad company met to
drink and gamble; and I wanted to get away from them, for I know'd very
well, if I staid there, I should get a bad name, as nobody could be
respectable that would live there."
About this time a Quaker, somewhat advanced in years, a good, honest
man, by the name of John Kennedy, emigrated from North Carolina, and
selecting his four hundred acres of land about fifteen miles from John
Crockett's, reared a log hut and commenced a clearing. In some
transaction with Crockett he took his neighbor's note for forty
dollars. He chanced to see David, a stout lad of prepossessing
appearance, and proposed that he should work for him for two shillings
a day taking him one week upon trial. At the close of the week the
Quaker expressed himself as highly satisfied with his work, and offered
to pay him with his father's note of forty dollars for six months'
labor on his farm.
David knew full well how ready his father was to give his note, and how
slow he was to pay it. He was fully aware that the note was not worth,
to him, the paper upon which it was written. But he reflected that the
note was an obligation upon his father, that he was very poor, and his
lot in life was hard. It certainly indicated much innate nobility of
nature that this boy, under these circumstances, should have accepted
the offer of the Quaker. But David did this. For six months he labored
assiduously, without the slightest hope of reward, excepting that he
would thus relieve his father, whom he had no great cause either to
respect or love, from the embarrassment of the debt.
For a whole half-year David toiled upon the farm of the Quaker, never
once during that time visiting his home. At the end of the term he
received his pay for those long months of labor, in a little piece of
rumpled paper, upon which his father had probably made his mark. It was
Saturday evening. The next morning he borrowed a horse of his employer
and set out for a visit home. He was kindly welcomed. His father knew
nothing of the agreement which his son had made with Mr. Kennedy. As
the family were talking together around the cabin fire, David drew the
note from his pocket and presented it to his father. The old man seemed
much troubled. He supposed Mr. Kennedy had sent it for collection. As
usual, he began to make excuses. He said that he was very sorry that he
could not pay it, that he had met with many misfortunes, that he had no
money, and that he did not know what to do.
David then told his father that he did not hand him the bill for
collection, but that it was a present from him--that he had paid it in
full. It is easy for old and broken-down men to weep. John Crockett
seemed much affected by this generosity of his son, and David says "he
shed a heap of tears." He, however, avowed his inability to pay
anything whatever, upon the note.
David had now worked a year without getting any money for himself. His
clothes were worn out, and altogether he was in a very dilapidated
condition. He went back to the Quaker's, and again engaged in his
service, desiring to earn some money to purchase clothes. Two months
thus passed away. Every ardent, impetuous boy must have a love
adventure. David had his. A very pretty young Quakeress, of about
David's age, came from North Carolina to visit Mr. Kennedy, who was her
uncle. David fell desperately in love with her. We cannot better
describe this adventure than in the unpolished diction of this
illiterate boy. If one would understand this extraordinary character,
it is necessary thus to catch such glimpses as we can of his inner
life. Let this necessity atone for the unpleasant rudeness of speech.
Be it remembered that this reminiscence was written after David
Crockett was a member of Congress.
"I soon found myself head over heels in love with this girl. I thought
that if all the hills about there were pure chink, and all belonged to
me, I would give them if I could just talk to her as I wanted to. But I
was afraid to begin; for when I would think of saying anything to her,
my heart would begin to flutter like a duck in a puddle. And if I tried
to outdo it and speak, it would get right smack up in my throat, and
choke me like a cold potato. It bore on my mind in this way, till at
last I concluded I must die if I didn't broach the subject. So I
determined to begin and hang on a-trying to speak, till my heart would
get out of my throat one way or t'other.
"And so one day at it I went, and after several trials I could say a
little. I told her how I loved her; that she was the darling object of
my soul and body, and I must have her, or else I should pine down to
nothing, and just die away with consumption.
"I found my talk was not disagreeable to her. But she was an honest
girl, and didn't want to deceive nobody. She told me she was engaged to
her cousin, a son of the old Quaker. This news was worse to me than
war, pestilence, or famine. But still I know'd I could not help myself.
I saw quick enough my cake was dough; and I tried to cool off as fast
as possible. But I had hardly safety pipes enough, as my love was so
hot as mighty nigh to burst my boilers. But I didn't press my claims
any more, seeing there was no chance to do anything."
David's grief was very sincere, and continued as long as is usually the
case with disappointed lovers.
David soon began to cherish some slight idea of the deficiency in his
education. He had never been to school but four days; and in that time
he had learned absolutely nothing. A young man, a Quaker, had opened a
school about a mile and a half from Mr. Kennedy's. David made an
arrangement with his employer by which he was to go to school four days
in the week, and work the other two days for his board. He continued in
this way for six months. But it was very evident that David was not
born for a scholar. At the end of that time he could read a little in
the first primer. With difficulty he could make certain hieroglyphics
which looked like his name. He could also perform simple sums in
addition, subtraction, and multiplication. The mysteries of division he
never surmounted.
This was the extent of his education. He left school, and in the
laborious life upon which he entered, never after improved any
opportunity for mental culture. The disappointment which David had
encountered in his love affair, only made him more eager to seek a new
object upon which he might fix his affections. Not far from Mr.
Kennedy's there was the cabin of a settler, where there were two or
three girls. David had occasionally met them. Boy as he was, for he was
not yet eighteen, he suddenly and impetuously set out to see if he
could not pick, from them, one for a wife.
Without delay he made his choice, and made his offer, and was as
promptly accepted as a lover. Though they were both very young, and
neither of them had a dollar, still as those considerations would not
have influenced David in the slightest degree, we know not why they
where not immediately married. Several months of very desperate and
satisfactory courtship passed away, when the time came for the nuptials
of the little Quaker girl, which ceremony was to take place at the
cabin of her uncle David and his "girl" were invited to the wedding.
The scene only inflamed the desires of David to hasten his
marriage-day. He was very importunate in pressing his claims. She
seemed quite reluctant to fix the day, but at last consented; and says
David, "I thought if that day come, I should be the happiest man in the
created world, or in the moon, or anywhere else."
In the mean time David had become very fond of his rifle, and had
raised enough money to buy him one. He was still living with the
Quaker. Game was abundant, and the young hunter often brought in
valuable supplies of animal food. There were frequent shooting-matches
in that region. David, proud of his skill, was fond of attending them.
But his Quaker employer considered them a species of gambling, which
drew together all the idlers and vagrants of the region, and he could
not approve of them.
There was another boy living at that time with the Quaker. They
practised all sorts of deceptions to steal away to the shooting-matches
under pretence that they were engaged in other things. This boy was
quite in love with a sister of David's intended wife. The staid member
of the Society of Friends did not approve of the rude courting frolics
of those times, which frequently occupied nearly the whole night.
The two boys slept in a garret, in what was called the gable end of the
house. There was a small window in their rough apartment. One Sunday,
when the Quaker and his wife were absent attending a meeting, the boys
cut a long pole, and leaned it up against the side of the house, as
high as the window, but so that it would not attract any attention.
They were as nimble as catamounts, and could run up and down the pole
without the slightest difficulty. They would go to bed at the usual
early hour. As soon as all were quiet, they would creep from the house,
dressed in their best apparel, and taking the two farm-horses, would
mount their backs and ride, as fast as possible, ten miles through the
forest road to where the girls lived. They were generally expected.
After spending all the hours of the middle of the night in the varied
frolics of country courtship, they would again mount their horses and
gallop home, being especially careful to creep in at their window
before the dawn of day The course of true love seemed for once to be
running smoothly. Saturday came, and the next week, on Thursday, David
was to be married.
It so happened that there was to be a shooting match on Saturday, at
one of the cabins not far from the home of his intended bride. David
made some excuse as to the necessity of going home to prepare for his
wedding, and in the morning set out early, and directed his steps
straight to the shooting-match. Here he was very successful in his
shots, and won about five dollars. In great elation of spirits, and
fully convinced that he was one of the greatest and happiest men in the
world, he pressed on toward the home of his intended bride.
He had walked but a couple of miles, when he reached the cabin of the
girl's uncle. Considering the members of the family already as his
relatives, he stepped in, very patronizingly, to greet them. He doubted
not that they were very proud of the approaching alliance of their
niece with so distinguished a man as himself--a man who had actually
five dollars, in silver, in his pocket. Entering the cabin, he found a
sister of his betrothed there. Instead of greeting him with the
cordiality he expected, she seemed greatly embarrassed. David had
penetration enough to see that something was wrong. The reception she
gave him was not such as he thought a brother-in-law ought to receive.
He made more particular inquiries. The result we will give in David's
language.
"She then burst into tears, and told me that her sister was going to
deceive me; and that she was to be married to another man the next day.
This was as sudden to me as a clap of thunder of a bright sunshiny day.
It was the capstone of all the afflictions I had ever met with; and it
seemed to me that it was more than any human creature could endure. It
struck me perfectly speechless for some time, and made me feel so weak
that I thought I should sink down. I however recovered from the shock
after a little, and rose and started without any ceremony, or even
bidding anybody good-bye. The young woman followed me out to the gate,
and entreated me to go on to her father's, and said she would go with
me.
"She said the young man who was going to marry her sister had got his
license and asked for her. But she assured me that her father and
mother both preferred me to him; and that she had no doubt that if I
would go on I could break off the match. But I found that I could go no
farther. My heart was bruised, and my spirits were broken down. So I
bid her farewell, and turned my lonesome and miserable steps back again
homeward, concluding that I was only born for hardship, misery, and
disappointment. I now began to think that in making me it was entirely
forgotten to make my mate; that I was born odd, and should always
remain so, and that nobody would have me.
"But all these reflections did not satisfy my mind, for I had no peace,
day nor night, for several weeks. My appetite failed me, and I grew
daily worse and worse. They all thought I was sick; and so I was. And
it was the worst kind of sickness, a sickness of the heart, and all the
tender parts, produced by disappointed love."
For some time David continued in a state of great dejection, a lovelorn
swain of seventeen years. Thus disconsolate, he loved to roam the
forest alone, with his rifle as his only companion, brooding over his
sorrows. The gloom of the forest was congenial to him, and the
excitement of pursuing the game afforded some slight relief to his
agitated spirit. One day, when he had wandered far from home, he came
upon the cabin of a Dutchman with whom he had formed some previous
acquaintance. He had a daughter, who was exceedingly plain in her
personal appearance, but who had a very active mind, and was a bright,
talkative girl.
She had heard of David's misadventure, and rather unfeelingly rallied
him upon his loss. She however endeavored to comfort him by the
assurance that there were as good fish in the sea as had ever been
caught out of it. David did not believe in this doctrine at all, as
applied to his own case, He thought his loss utterly irretrievable. And
in his still high appreciation of himself, notwithstanding his deep
mortification, he thought that the lively Dutch girl was endeavoring to
catch him for her lover. In this, however, he soon found himself
mistaken.
She told him that there was to be a reaping frolic in their
neighborhood in a few days, and that if he would attend it, she would
show him one of the prettiest girls upon whom he ever fixed his eyes.
Difficult as he found it to shut out from his mind his lost love, upon
whom his thoughts were dwelling by day and by night, he very wisely
decided that his best remedy would be found in what Dr. Chalmers calls
"the expulsive power of a new affection;" that is, that he would try
and fall in love with some other girl as soon as possible. His own
language, in describing his feelings at that time, is certainly very
different from that which the philosopher or the modern novelist would
have used, but it is quite characteristic of the man. The Dutch maiden
assured him that the girl who had deceived him was not to be compared
in beauty with the one she would show to him. He writes:
"I didn't believe a word of all this, for I had thought that such a
piece of flesh and blood as she had never been manufactured, and never
would again. I agreed with her that the little varmint had treated me
so bad that I ought to forget her, and yet I couldn't do it. I
concluded that the best way to accomplish it was to cut out again, and
see if I could find any other that would answer me; and so I told the
Dutch girl that I would be at the reaping, and would bring as many as I
could with me."
David seems at this time to have abandoned all constant industry, and
to be loafing about with his rifle, thus supporting himself with the
game he took. He traversed the still but slightly broken forest in all
directions, carrying to many scattered farm-houses intelligence of the
approaching reaping frolic. He informed the good Quaker with whom he
had worked of his intention to be there. Mr. Kennedy endeavored to
dissuade him. He said that there would be much bad company there; that
there would be drinking and carousing, and that David had been so good
a boy that he should be very sorry to have him get a bad name.
The curiosity of the impetuous young man was, however, by this time,
too much aroused for any persuasions to hold him back. Shouldering his
rifle, he hastened to the reaping at the appointed day. Upon his
arrival at the place he found a large company already assembled. He
looked around for the pretty girl, but she was nowhere to be seen. She
chanced to be in a shed frolicking with some others of the young people.
But as David, with his rifle on his shoulder, sauntered around, an aged
Irish woman, full of nerve and volubility, caught sight of him. She was
the mother of the girl, and had been told of the object of David's
visit. He must have appeared very boyish, for he had not yet entered
his eighteenth year, and though very wiry and athletic, he was of
slender frame, and rather small in stature.
The Irish woman hastened to David; lavished upon him compliments
respecting his rosy cheeks, and assured him that she had exactly such a
sweet heart for him as he needed. She did not allow, David to have any
doubt that she would gladly welcome him as the husband of her daughter.
Pretty soon the young, fresh, blooming, mirthful girl came along; and
David fell in love with her at first sight. Not much formality of
introduction was necessary: each was looking for the other. Both of the
previous loves of the young man were forgotten in an instant. He
devoted himself with the utmost assiduity, to the little Irish girl. He
was soon dancing with her. After a very vigorous "double shuffle," as
they were seated side by side on a bench intensely talking, for David
Crockett was never at a loss for words, the mother came up, and, in her
wonderfully frank mode of match-making, jocosely addressed him as her
son-in-law.
Even David's imperturbable self-possession was disturbed by this
assailment. Still he was much pleased to find both mother and daughter
so favorably disposed toward him. The rustic frolicking continued
nearly all night. In the morning, David, in a very happy frame of mind,
returned to the Quaker's, and in anticipation of soon setting up
farming for himself, engaged to work for him for six months for a
low-priced horse.