Legislature, he had finished his mill, but still owed for labor and
material. The mill was worth three or four thousand dollars, and
besides that, he owned several able-bodied slaves, and more than
the usual stock of goods and chattels. He saw prosperity and honors
assured, and his soul was full of faith in the future. The Legislature
that came together after the elections of 1821 was composed of the
class that represented the men of the frontier, rather than the
aristocracy that had hitherto monopolized both the wealth and the
honors of the State.
In the same year, William Carroll, who had so bravely commanded the
rear guard of Jackson’s forces at Enotachopco Creek, was a candidate
for the Governorship. He represented, as did Davy, the men who paid
rentals to monopolists, and taxes to the State that favored the wealthy
in the filling of remunerative offices. When Carroll’s enemies accused
him of having let his note go to protest, they threw a boomerang that
slew them in its sudden homeward flight; for Carroll’s friends made it
known that he had lost everything in going security for them in dire
financial straits. His opponent, Ward, was cold and unapproachable.
To him a man from the cane-brakes or the windowless cabins of the
mountains was little better than the savages just beyond. In Phelan’s
history of Tennessee, there is mention of a sarcastic letter printed in
the Nashville _Clarion_ over the signature “A Big Fish.” In this the
supposed Big Fish, or Big-Bug, as the aristocrat was then often called,
gave the reasons why he could not vote for Carroll. He said that
Carroll was born of poor parents, and had never learned the rudiments
of Latin and Greek; as a boy and a young man, he had plowed and reaped
and cleared the land; he had always been handy at log-rollings, country
weddings, and huskings; he had gone to the wars, instead of staying
home to save the wealth that was needed for the Governor’s position; he
could not support the dignity of the great office with fine dinners,
splendid carriages, liveried servants, and state balls; he was too
ready to shake hands with the ragged soldier because they had fought
on the same fields. A man who was not above such low-born loons was
not fit to command the votes of the educated and the men of the higher
classes.
Carroll received forty-two thousand votes, while his austere and
wealthy rival had but eleven thousand. On the same popular tidal
wave, Davy Crockett was carried to Nashville as a representative of
his neighbors in the recent Purchase from the Indians, and in the
atmosphere that prevailed in the halls of state he believed he had
found his place.
Davy had hardly been sworn in as a member of the Legislature when bad
news from home reached him. A freshet had swept away his mill, and his
distillery was worthless without the corn that was ground by it. When
he had served through the session, he rode home, sold all that he had,
and paid every dollar he could realize to his creditors. He was left
with nothing but his household “plunder,” as he termed it, and the
times were hard. The “Loan Bank” scheme that was to provide a currency
and credit for development of the State had become a failure. There was
nothing to do, in such times, but to live by the sweat of the brow.
His wife stood bravely by him, and he gave up all he had, and “took a
bran-fire new start.”
He was now thirty-six, and his oldest boy was sixteen. With this son
and a young man named Abram Henry, Davy started in the spring of 1822
to look at the Obion River region, then reputed to be full of game.
It was a long tramp across an unsettled country, nearly one hundred
and fifty miles in a bee-line, and the three led a single horse which
carried their scanty outfit of food, blankets, and ammunition. There
were many streams to cross, including the Tennessee. In what is now
Carroll County they struck the head of the south fork of the Obion
River, and this they followed to a place about ten miles south of
where the small settlement named after Crockett now is situated. Here
they found themselves in a wilderness, abounding with game. The three
nearest cabins were seven, fifteen, and twenty miles distant. The one
seven miles away was that of the Owens family, and it was on the other
side of the Rutherford Fork of the Obion, a tortuous stream, then in
flood and over its low banks for half a mile on either shore. The water
was chilly, the depth uncertain, and the crossing difficult and full of
danger.
There was nothing to do but to take to the water, and after hobbling
the horse, so that he could graze till they returned for him, they went
at it “like so many beavers.” When the water was too deep to go ahead,
Davy felt the way over the shallower bottom by using a pole. His boy
often had to swim beside them, and progress was slow. When the river
channel was reached, they found that a tree had fallen and lodged in a
pile of flood-trash near the middle of the main stream. The water was
deep at this place, and there was no way of crossing without some kind
of a bridge. A large buttonwood tree stood upon the near side of the
river, and the two men began cutting it down with Davy’s tomahawk. They
managed to do this so that it fell above the flood-trash, and when it
had been washed against it the bridge was ready.
“When we got over this,” says Davy, “it was still a sea of water as far
as the eye could reach. We took into it again, and went ahead for about
a mile, hardly ever seeing a single spot of land, and sometimes it was
very deep. When at last we came in sight of land, and got out, it was
but a little way before we saw the house, which was more pleasing
even than the sight of land. I felt mighty sorry when I would look at
my boy, and see him shaking like he had the worst kind of an ague, for
there was no time for fever then. As we got near the house, we saw Mr.
Owens and several men that were with him, just starting away. They saw
us, and stopped, but looked much astonished until we got up to them,
and I made myself known. The men who were with him were the owners of
a boat which was the first that ever went that far up the Obion River,
and some hands they had hired to carry it about a hundred miles further
up, by water, though it was only about thirty, by land, as the river is
very crooked.”
The whole party then went back to the Owens cabin, where Mrs. Owens won
Davy’s gratitude by taking charge of the shivering boy. A great fire
blazed in the fireplace, and before that they dried themselves. After
supper, leaving his boy with Mrs. Owens, Davy and the others went on
board of the boat, and stayed all night. It was a flat-bottomed boat,
drawing but a foot or so of water. The cabin, or deck-house, was of
light material, furnished with bunks, and stored with the freight that
would be injured by rains. The other freight was lashed on deck, and
the load was all that was safe to carry. This boat was carrying flour,
sugar, castings, coffee, salt, and other goods needed on the frontier,
and was to go as far as McLemore’s Bluff. This was in Carroll County
(as now named), and the crew were to be paid five hundred dollars bonus
if they landed the freight at that point. It was to be a proof that the
river was navigable thus far, though it seems that a flood was first
necessary.
In the morning Davy went with the boat, to help get it by a place on
the river where a “harricane” had blown trees across it, making it hard
to get through. They found that the water had gone down, and had to
wait for a rain. The next day it rained “rip-roariously,” as Davy tells
us, but yet not enough. While waiting, Davy and the boatmen crossed
the Fork, and in a short time “slapped up a cabin” on a spot selected
by him. Here Davy procured four barrels of meal, one of salt, and ten
gallons of spirits, in payment for which he was to help get the boat
to McLemore’s Bluff. Henry and the boy were left in the new cabin,
after a deer had been killed for them, and other supplies provided.
The day after the cabin was built, Davy started out with his rifle for
a hunt. Within a few minutes he had killed a fine buck, and hung him
up. He started to go back to the boat for help in bringing him in, but
on the way he struck the trail of a number of elk and went after them.
In a short time he saw two deer, large bucks with immense antlers. He
dropped one, and then shot the other, which would not leave the one
first killed. Hanging the two out of reach of bears and wolves, Davy
kept after the elk till evening, when he gave up the chase, being four
miles from the cabin, and “as hungry as a wolf.”
As he set out for the river, on his way back, he killed two more bucks.
Dressing these in the usual way, with the skins on, he hung them up and
kept on. Before he got to the river, just at sundown, he killed another
buck, making six since morning. At last he reached the lower edge of
the “harricane,” and was disappointed at not finding the boat there.
He had not expected it could be taken through that day. When he fired
his rifle as a signal, the answer came from up the river. He then knew
that he had to crawl and climb through the “harricane,” in which all
kinds of berry-bushes and vines were growing. A fat coon would have had
a hard time in getting through after him, he tells us. Finally he got
to a place where a skiff came for him. He says that he felt as if he
needed sewing up all over, thanks to the brambles and the briers along
his trail, and he was so tired that he could scarcely work his jaws to
eat.
The next morning four of the deer were secured and taken on board, and
the voyage proceeded. Pushing, and hauling with ropes, it took eleven
days to reach the Bluff, from which point Davy and a young man named
Flavius Harris went back to his cabin in the skiff, given to them by
the boatmen. They at once cleared a field, in the usual rough way,
leaving the charred stumps standing, and planting among them. Davy put
in enough corn to do for the winter, but had no time for fencing.
It was late spring, and he was anxious to return for his family.
While thus planting and planning, Davy killed ten bears and “a great
abundance of deer,” repaying the Owens family many times over for their
kindness to him and his boy. In these weeks of hard work the only white
faces seen were those of the Owenses, and once in a while those of men
looking over the country.
There were many Indians in the timber, and sometimes they came to
Davy’s clearing, and watched with vague forebodings the gleam of the
axe and the tender green of the springing grain. Their traditions
were full of the untrammelled freedom of the wilderness, of the
plentiful supplies of game and mast, of rivers alive with fish, on
whose banks the beaver and otter were scarcely afraid of those who
wore the splendid peltries of their kind. When they turned from the
scene towards the solitude of the wilderness, their hearts were sad,
for the knell of their race resounded through their ancient temples,
built by the Great Spirit, whose aisles were rows of stately oak and
pine, whose arches of living green were hung with golden blossoms of
the tulip-tree and the fiery clusters of the trumpet-vine. There was
no sentiment in the heart of the pioneer, who classed the Indian, the
wolf, and the moccasin of the steaming swamp, as equally worthy of
extermination.
When the corn had started, Davy made his way back to Shoal Creek, and
from there to Nashville to attend a special session of the Legislature.
With his three dollars per diem in his pocket, he returned to the scene
of his disasters, and as soon as possible started with all his family
for the clearing on the Rutherford Fork of the Obion, where Harris was
working out his own salvation with axe and fire, while keeping the
“varments” out of the Crockett corn. It was some time in the fall of
1822 that the wearied family came in sight of the rude cabin that was
to be their home. Most of them had tramped the one hundred and fifty
miles across the trackless land, for upon the horses were loaded the
household effects and wearing apparel that Davy still owned. The loom,
the wooden trencher, spare clothing, table utensils, and a few rude
dishes were about all that the pioneer thought necessary in these
days, always excepting the priceless ammunition and the guns.
The small clearing of six to eight acres that Davy had made, a quarter
of a mile east of the Fork, could only partly feed so many mouths,
and the task of supporting his family would have been desperate, had
it not been for the supply of game that could always be counted upon.
The river and the lakes were full of fish, and when the meat for the
winter had been cured or salted down, there was always a good chance
of getting more if needed. When Davy had harvested his crop of corn,
in the last of October, 1822, he set out for the usual fall hunt. The
buffalo had already disappeared from that vicinity, and he never saw
one of these ponderous animals until he was on the way to the Alamo, in
the last year of his life. Of all other wild “varments,” as he termed
them, the woods were full.
When Christmas approached Davy’s supply of powder ran low, and he
determined to cross the Fork and go to the home of a brother-in-law
who had settled six miles west, and who had brought with him a keg of
powder for Davy. The river was full of slush ice, and was out of its
banks, as when Davy first saw it, but the determination to have powder
for the usual Christmas fusillade, and the fact that they were out of
meat, overruled his wife’s argument that they might as well starve as
to have him drown or freeze. With his gun and hunting tools, and a few
extras in the way of clothing, he started through the deep snow that
had fallen, and waded across half a mile of flooded ground, until the
main channel was before him. This he crossed on a log that lay from
bank to bank, but farther on he came to a slough which was wider than
the river itself, though he had always been able to cross it on another
log. This was entirely under water, but he recognized its location by
the sapling that stood beside it. By cutting another long sapling and
lodging it against the first, he managed to use the submerged log as
a bridge, and reached an island, now under water in the slough. Again
wading for a long distance, he crossed another slough part way on a
floating log, but fell off it when it turned over with him. He waded
out of the water, which was nearly up to his head, and when he got
to solid ground, put on the dry clothing which he had held, with his
rifle, above the water. He says that after he had done this and had
hung the wet clothing on the bushes, he had no feeling in his flesh. He
tried to run to warm himself, but could scarcely move his feet.
When he got to his brother-in-law’s cabin, he thought the smell of the
fire the best thing he had ever known. The next morning was piercing
cold, and he stayed there to hunt, killing two deer for the family.
The third day he decided to return, hoping that the ice had frozen so
as to help him cross the still places in the sloughs. But time after
time he broke through, and when he reached the sloughs and the river he
had to go through the same performance as he had when he first crossed
them――a feat made even harder by having to cross first with his gun,
and then go back for the powder-keg. The ice had been broken as if a
bear had gone across, and he at once fresh primed his gun, so that he
was ready to “make war upon him,” if he appeared. When Davy reached
his home, he was hailed as one risen from the dead. He learned that
the ice had been broken by a man sent after him by his distressed
wife, who had given up hope of his ever returning. He concludes this
incident by saying: “I wasn’t quite dead, but mighty nigh it; but I had
my powder, and that was what I went for.” This impatience at delay was
one of Davy’s traits. He might easily have managed to subsist until the
falling of the water, or until the ice was strong enough to bear him,
but he couldn’t wait. It is a sure thing that he celebrated Christmas
with a part of the dearly-earned powder.
X.
THE ELECTION
Hunting in the “harricane”――His dream of a big black “nigger”――His
dogs bark up the wrong tree――A bear as big as a bull――Davy’s trip to
Jackson――Meets some former comrades-in-arms――His name again suggested
for the Legislature――He becomes a candidate in hunting coat and
coon-skin cap――He is elected a member from his new district――Votes
against Jackson’s friend for United States Senator――Old Hickory puts a
mark opposite Crockett’s name――In the next election Davy is defeated by
Jackson’s influence――Returns to farming again.
Davy Crockett in his time was celebrated as the greatest bear-hunter
that ever lived. The story of one of his hunts was probably read by
almost every man, woman, and child, of his generation, in Tennessee.
His own version is by far the best, and is now given word for word as
he wrote it. First let the reader understand that Davy’s cabin was near
the Rutherford fork of the Obion, on the east side, and just below
the “harricane,” where either a great wind-storm or a not uncommon
earthquake had laid most of the timber flat. East of the cabin, five
or six miles, was the middle or main fork of the Obion. A look at the
map will show very nearly the location of his home. The hunt began the
morning after he had secured his precious keg of powder. Davy’s story
is as follows:
“That night there fell a heavy rain, and it turned to sleet. In the
morning all hands turned out hunting. My young man and a brother-in-law
who had lately settled near me went down the river to hunt for turkeys,
but I was for larger game. I told them I had dreamed the night before
of having had a hard fight with a big black nigger, and I know’d it
was a sign I was to have a battle with a bear; for in a bear country,
I never know’d such a dream to fail. So I started to go above the
harricane, determined to have a bear. I had two pretty good dogs and
an old hound, which I took along. I had gone about six miles up the
river, and it was then about four miles across to the main Obion; so
I determined to strike across to that, as I had found nothing yet to
kill.
“I got on to the river, and turned down it; but the sleet was still
getting worse and worse. The bushes were all bent down and locked
together, so that it was almost impossible to get along. In a little
time my dogs started a large gang of old turkey gobblers, and I killed
two of the biggest sort. I shouldered them up, and moved on, until I
got through the harricane again, when I was so tired that I laid my
gobblers down, to rest, as they were confounded heavy, and I was mighty
tired.
“While I was resting, my old hound went to a log and smelt it awhile,
and then raised his eyes towards the sky and cried out. Away he went,
and my other dogs with him, and I shouldered up my turkeys again, and
followed on as hard as I could drive. The dogs were soon out of sight,
and in a very little time I heard them begin to bark. When I got to
them, they were barking up a tree, but there was no game there. I
concluded that it had been a turkey, and that it had flew away.
“When they saw me coming, away they went again, and, after a little
time, began to bark as before. When I got near them, I found they were
barking up the wrong tree again, as there was no game there. They
served in this way three or four times, until I was so infernal mad
that I determined, if I could get near enough, to shoot the old hound
at least.
“With this intention, I pushed on the harder, till I came to the edge
of an open prairie, and, looking on before my dogs, I saw in and
about the biggest bear that ever was seen in America. He looked, at
the distance he was from me, like a large black bull. My dogs were
afraid to attack him, and that was the reason why they had stopped so
often――that I might overtake them. They were now almost up with him,
and I took my gobblers from my back and hung them up in a sapling, and
broke like a quarter horse after my bear, for the sight of him had put
new springs in me. I soon got near to them, but they were just getting
into a roaring thicket, and so I couldn’t run through it, but had to
pick my way along, and had close work at that.
“In a little while I saw the bear climbing up a large black oak tree,
and I crawled on till I got within about eighty yards of him. He was
setting with his breast to me, and so I put fresh priming in my gun and
fired at him. At this he raised one of his paws and snorted loudly. I
loaded again as quick as I could, and fired as near the same place in
his breast as possible. At the crack of my gun, here he came tumbling
down; and the moment he touched the ground I heard one of my best dogs
cry out. I took my tomahawk in one hand and my big butcher-knife in the
other, and ran up within four or five paces of him, at which he let my
dog go and fixed his eyes on me. I got back in all sorts of a hurry,
for I knowed that if he got hold of me, he would hug me altogether too
close for comfort. I went to my gun and hastily loaded her again, and
shot him a third time, which killed him for good.
“I now began to think about getting him home, but I didn’t know how
far it was. So I left him and started; and in order to find him again,
I would blaze a sapling every little distance, which would show me
the way back; I continued this until I got within a mile of home, for
there I knowed very well where I was, and that I could easily find my
way back to my blazes. When I got home, I took my brother-in-law and
my young man and four horses, and went back. We got there just before
dark, and struck up a fire and commenced butchering my bear. It was
some time in the night before we finished it; and I can assert, on my
honor, that I believe he would have weighed six hundred pounds. It was
the second largest I ever saw. I killed one, a few years afterwards,
that weighed six hundred and seventeen pounds.
“I now felt fully compensated for my sufferings in going after my
powder; and well satisfied that a dog may be doing a good business,
_even when he seems to be barking up the wrong tree_.”
The bear referred to as weighing six hundred pounds was a fine specimen
of the black bear of the East, but the white bears of Alaska are
nearly twice as large. In 1909, near the western extremity of the
Alaskan Peninsula, a white bear was killed by Dr. J. Wylie Anderson,
of Denver, and Mr. Hornaday, the celebrated zoölogist, estimated its
weight at twelve hundred pounds.
In the month of February, 1823, Davy went to Jackson, carrying a great
quantity of skins to sell. Jackson was then a little cross-roads
settlement, the county seat of Madison County, and about forty miles
from Davy’s clearing. He was there only twenty-four hours before the
skins were sold, and supplies of sugar, coffee, salt, powder, and lead
were bought and packed in readiness for an early start for home the
next day.
About this time the outlaws and cut-throats that afterwards came
under the leadership of John A. Murrell were haunting the highways of
the southwestern part of Tennessee. Now and then stories of murders
by Indians were heard with suspicion by the wise; there were white
murderers as well as red ones, they thought. Even Davy had little
desire to stay any longer than necessary in that vicinity; for the fact
that he was now worth robbing might become known to the outlaws, who
watched for victims with the keen vision and cruelty of the wolves
that howled at night in the dark shadows of the pines. But the evening
was before him, and a man who had worked and hunted for six months, as
he had, might be expected to look for recreation. He wanted to hunt up
some of the men whom he had known in the Creek War, and before long he
had found enough of them to make a quorum in the bar-room, whose tallow
candles threw a dull glow across the muddy street. If Davy had gone to
bed after getting ready to start, his future would have been different,
and his history might never have been of especial interest to the world.
While Davy and his fellow-soldiers were busy talking over old times,
others came in, among them three prominent candidates for nomination
for the Legislature in that district, which included eleven counties.
One of these was Doctor Butler, nephew by marriage to General Jackson.
Some one said to Davy:
“Crockett, here are three candidates for the Legislature. You ought to
offer also, seeing that you know the ropes so well.”