thinking of what a “hobble” he had got himself into, and how much
better bear-hunting was than being on the water, where he had to go
ahead, whether he wanted to or not, when he heard some one walking
slowly back and forth on the deck above him, and he went up the
companionway to see who it was. The boats were sweeping along through
the dark, and, in spite of attempts to steer, the crew were really
trusting to a merciful Providence. The uneasy mortal for whom Davy was
looking proved to be Uncle Julius, the darky cook.
“What’s the matter, Uncle?” Davy said. “Can’t you sleep?”
“’Deed I can’t, Mars Davy,” was the doleful reply. “De squinch-owls
an’ de hoot-owls makin’ a heap er noise on de sho’, an’ de wolves is
howlin’ like de ha’nts bin after ’um. ’Pears like I’s so oneasy I
can’t keep still fer thinkin’ er de time w’en de crawfishes bo’ed de
holes in de groun’, en all de animiles an’ de folkses, ’ceppin Noer en
his critters, went down ter de bottom, kerblunkity-blink. I ain’ much
fer whimplin’ erroun’, but I’s mighty juberous ’bout dis yere kin’ er
sailin’, and wen you says I can’t sleep, Mars Dave, yo’ sho’s knockin’
at de back do’.”
Davy said a word to cheer up the old darky, then looked about him
before going below. The ripple of the water against the sides of the
boats was like the wash of waves on an unknown coast. From the tall
buttonwood and cottonwood trees upon the shore came the “Hoo! Hoo! Too
Whoo! Hoo! Hoo! Too Whoo!” that stirred the superstition of the darky’s
nature. The tremulous cry of the ’coon, the howling of a wolf, and the
bay of a hound, floated out across the muddy stream; then there came
a sudden splashing of the water ahead, and a flock of ducks flew away
with loud and angry clamor. From overhead the wild-geese call was like
the far-away blast of a trumpet blown by spirits of the air. The wind
was chill, and there was nothing a bear-hunter could do, so Davy went
below again, but not to sleep.
The darky was trying to keep up his spirits by singing, the words of
his ditty being somewhat similar to those made famous by Uncle Remus:
“Oh, de fus’ news you know de day’ll be a-breakin’,
An’ de fier be a-burnin’ en’ de ash-cake a-bakin’,
An’ de hen’ll be a-hollerin’ en’ de boss’ll be a-wakin’――
Better git up, nigger, en’ give yo’se’f a shakin’――
Hi O! Miss Sindy Ann!
“Oh, honey, w’en you year dat tin horn a-tootin’,
Oh, honey, w’en you year de squinch-owl a-hootin’,
Oh, honey, w’en you year dem little pigs a-rootin’,
Right den she’s a-comin’ a-skippin’ en’ a-scootin’――
Hi O! Miss Sindy Ann!”
Davy most profoundly wished for the daylight the old cook was praying
for. Suddenly there was a crash and the covering of the way to the
deck was crushed flat, perhaps from being struck by the limbs of a
tree. There was no chance to get out of the place where he was sitting.
The scurrying of feet sounded above, there was a sudden thump and a
tipping of the boat, as the clumsy craft struck the head of an island
and lodged against a pile of flood-trash and loose timbers.
Realizing his danger, Davy tried in vain to force his way up the
stairs. As the boat careened, the opening used for dipping water from
the river was exposed, the other boat having drifted away. He tried to
get out through this, but found it too small. In desperation he put his
arms through as far as he could, and as the water was not yet up to his
face, he says he “hollered as loud as he could roar,” telling the crew
to pull him out or pull him in two. It was a case of life or death,
with no time to wait. By a violent pull, they dragged him through. He
had been without a coat in the cabin, and now found himself without a
shirt, and so badly scratched up that he was “skinned like a rabbit.”
He says he was glad enough to escape alive, without shirt or hide.
The whole crew then left the boats to their fate and climbed onto the
timber, which seems to have been in the form of a raft, where they sat
without much on till morning. Davy had at this time a hope of success
in the next election, and as he sat, disconsolate and barefooted in the
middle of the Mississippi, two miles wide, he says:
“I reckon I looked like a pretty cracklin’ ever to get to Congress.”
In the midst of so many troubles, Davy showed his grit; and his
reflections at the time are worth recording:
“We had now lost all our loading, and every particle of our clothing,
except what we had on; but over all this, while I was setting there,
in the night, floating about on the drift, I felt happier and better
off than I had ever felt before in my life, for I had just made such a
marvelous escape that I had forgot almost everything but that; and so I
felt prime.”
About daylight a steamboat was seen coming down the river, and they
flew such signals of distress as the state of their wardrobes allowed.
It is traditional that one of the men stripped off his red shirt and
waved it on the end of a cane pole that had caught in the flood-trash.
A cheery blast from the boat’s whistle answered the signals, and as she
stopped above them, a skiff was seen leaving her side. In a short time
all were taken on board the rescuing craft, whose name is not known.
She landed them at Memphis, without shoes or hats or any other articles
of wearing apparel in sufficiency for half the crew. As they were
passing one of the gambling rooms with which Memphis abounded in those
days, some one hailed Davy, calling him Colonel Crockett. It proved
to be one of the men who had been at the Talladega fight. Davy’s old
comrade induced him to go with him to the store of Major Winchester,
a wealthy trader. Davy was as proud a mortal as ever drew breath, but
with a heart full of gratitude he accepted the Major’s offer of money
and clothing for himself and the destitute crew. For this the Major
would take nothing as security, not even a note or receipt, and his
kindness and his faith in the Colonel never were forgotten.
From Memphis Davy went down the river to Natchez by steamboat, hoping
to recover the boats in case they had held together. He heard of one
of them fifty miles below Memphis, where attempts had been made to
stop it, but, he says, “she was as hard-headed as ever.” Nothing was
afterwards known of the other. So ended another of Davy’s ventures, and
again he went home with empty hands to the little cabin at the end of
the trail through the Obion wilderness.
In this lone clearing, he was literally “the man from the cane,” but
he had no idea of staying there. He hunted bears, and planted his
crops, and waited his time. When this had come, he again “offered” for
Congress, and started upon an electioneering tour. His trip in which
the boats were lost was in the year 1826, probably late in the fall.
The Congressional campaign occurred in 1827, and the election was in
August of that year. Some of the incidents of the canvass by Davy will
be told in the next chapter.
XV.
CLAY AND WEBSTER
Davy runs for Congress――He plays the part of the little red fox――The
guinea-hens annoy Davy’s opponent――Davy’s coon-skin cap and his rifle
win the election in spite of Jackson’s opposition――He is now the Hon.
David Crockett, M.C., and a national character――Again crosses the
mountains on his way to the capital――Familiar scenes bring back old
memories――He repays the friend who lent him money for the campaign――In
the “straggling village of Washington”――Davy’s dream of future
greatness――He becomes acquainted with Clay, Webster, and other great
men.
It will be remembered that Davy was beaten by two votes in 1825,
Colonel Alexander being elected to Congress at a time when cotton was
twenty-five cents per pound. The Colonel took his part of the credit
for this advance in prices, and was a winner as a tariff supporter.
While he was in Congress, cotton tumbled to six and eight cents, and
the Colonel was out of political ammunition. The story of Colonel
Crockett’s bear-hunting on the Obion had been told in every cabin. His
wreck and escape from drowning on the river awakened the sympathy of
every poor man in his district, and they made up the greater part of
the population. As may be supposed, Davy had no money for a canvass of
so large a district; but a good friend gave him enough to start with,
and seems to have been at many of the meetings, always with a little
more to help along. In time this amounted to one hundred and fifty
dollars, not a great sum for a three months’ campaign.
Davy’s opponents were Colonel Alexander, for reëlection, and General
William Arnold, of the militia, who was also an advocate and a
brilliant speaker. The situation reminds us of the Æsopian fable:
“A Lion and a Tiger happened to come together over the dead body of
a Fawn that had recently been shot. A fierce battle ensued, and as
each animal was in the prime of his age and strength, the combat was
long and furious. At last they lay stretched on the ground, panting,
bleeding, and exhausted, each unable to lift a paw against the other.
An impudent Fox, coming by at the time, stepped in and carried off
before their eyes the prey for which they had suffered so much.”
It is a curious coincidence when Davy says that he was as cunning “as
a little red fox,” and would not risk his tail in a “committal trap,”
carefully avoiding any declaration of his rather vague political creed.
His competitors were so busy warring against each other, that they
lost sight of the little red fox whom they had not thought worthy of
attention.
In one of the eastern counties of the district an amusing incident
occurred. The three candidates were to speak at a meeting, and Davy’s
turn came first. He made a short talk in the style that he had found
always interested the men of his kind. The others followed with
tedious attacks upon each other’s platforms, but without honoring
Davy with a mention. In the midst of Colonel Alexander’s speech, some
guinea-hens raised their sharp, staccato cries that sounded like
“Crockett! Crockett! Crockett!” They so disturbed the Colonel that
he had them driven away before going on with the speech. As soon as
he had finished, Davy congratulated him upon being opposed to fowl
language in public. The Colonel was at a loss for a reply to something
of which he did not see the point, whereupon Davy went on to explain
that the guinea-hens had offended his opponent because they had called
for “Crockett! Crockett!” The whole crowd caught the joke and yelled
with fierce backwoods mirth, and Davy records that “the Colonel seemed
mighty bad plagued.” Party lines were not tightly drawn in those days,
but out of the confusion was slowly taking place a separation of the
elements that were to form the Republicans, under Jackson, and the
Whigs, who later elected General Harrison as President of the United
States. The Republicans later became the Democratic party, and about
1856, strange and confusing as it now seems, their opponents took the
name of “Republicans.”
Davy went into every nook and corner of his district, meeting and
making friends. If there was a barbecue, he was the first attraction;
at a shooting-match every one gloried in his skill. When the returns
were complete they showed that Colonel Crockett had a plurality
of 2,748 votes. This was so remarkable a victory over the men who
supported the tariff legislation of 1824, that Davy became known at
once all over the United States. The men who were urging the people
of the country to make Jackson President, and who elected him in
1828, were proud of his origin; they gloried in his lowly birth, and
proclaimed him a proof of the virtues that existed beneath the rough
garb of the backwoodsman. And as they glorified Andrew Jackson, they
exalted Davy Crockett. What Jackson had been, Davy Crockett was; he was
still “the man from the cane,” the bear-hunter, the Indian fighter,
the man who “went ahead.” In his little cabin on the Obion were his
wife and children, sons and daughters of the wilderness; his coon-skin
cap still hung upon the wall, his rifle stood by the open door; his
garments were spun beneath his humble roof, and with his own daily
labor he fed those who were dear to him. He was honest, fearless, and
could read and write only with difficulty. All these things endeared
him to the men of the Chickasaw Purchase, who also could read and write
only with infinite pains. Until now the Presidents of the United States
had been chosen from the ranks of the aristocrats. John Quincy Adams,
who was then President, was the coldest and most dignified of the long
line.
Congress convened in December, in regular session, and after a tearful
farewell to his family, the Honorable David Crockett, M.C. from
Tennessee, took the old trail across the mountains. Many of his boyhood
friends came to meet him after he left Nashville, and every day brought
back old memories as he saw the familiar scenes. The sumacs glowed
like fire upon the slopes of the Great Smoky Mountains, and among the
sombre forests of pine and hemlock were the gold and crimson glories
of the maple and the oak. The deer still watched the travellers from
its hiding-place, and the owl called solemnly through the twilight,
as of old; but the tom-tom no longer summoned the red men to council,
or stirred the quiet wilderness with a dread of the tomahawk and the
knife. The work of the pioneer was done. The farmer and the artisan
were building an empire upon the foundations he had laid, and Davy
Crockett, backwoodsman and scout, was about to take part with the
proudest in the land in the making of a nation’s laws.
Before he started for Washington, his rich friend advanced him a
hundred dollars more, to cover his expenses to that city. Regarding
this loan, he has said: “I came on to Washington, and drawed two
hundred and fifty dollars, and purchased with it a check on the bank
at Nashville, and enclosed it to my friend; and I may say, in truth,
I sent this money with a right good-will, for I reckon nobody in this
world loves a friend better than me, or remembers a kindness longer.”
As the early nights came on in Washington, which was then an unkempt
city of scarcely twenty thousand people, and which twelve years
afterwards the English traveller, George Combes, wrote of as a
“straggling village in a half-drained swamp,” Davy looked across the
marshes of the Potomac and the Anacostia, and pictured to himself
a far-away scene upon the Rutherford Fork: a little space in the
wilderness, where the corn-stalks rustled in the autumn wind; the
sturdy cabin, built of logs and chinked with clay, before whose door
his faithful hounds slept a fitful sleep, awaiting their master’s call;
the near-by “harricane,” where the bears ever grew fatter, undisturbed
by the crack of rifle or the baying of dogs; bright, loving faces
looking wistfully across the unnumbered miles on which he had followed
the flickering torch of Fame. He believed himself a great man. Against
the polished learning and the subtleties of the aristocrat, he measured
with a rather excusable complacency his own common-sense and his own
victories. As the days wore on and he became used to the daily grind at
the Capitol, he found himself known to every public man in the city,
and became more reconciled to political life. His idioms of speech were
watched for with an intentness that flattered his pride. He no longer
wore a coon-skin cap or homespun clothing, but there was something in
the way in which he traversed the quagmires of Pennsylvania Avenue,
that was different from the more mincing gait of the aristocratic
statesmen and diplomats who found relief from their official labors in
leading the minuet.
Davy entered into politics in dead earnest, and by the time he had
been sought out by such men as Henry Clay and Daniel Webster, and
others eager to turn to account every factor in politics, he began to
dream. Andrew Jackson had come of lowly parentage, from a cabin in the
wilderness; he was sure to be elected President, if he lived, in two
years more. If Andrew Jackson, why not Davy Crockett?
Davy’s ambitious nature is revealed in his own story, written or
dictated during his career as a Congressman, and after his departure
from the Republican, or Jackson, fold. In this he makes these remarks,
as he tells one of the reasons for recounting his experiences in
book-form:
“I know that as obscure as I am, my name is making considerable of a
fuss in the world. I can’t tell why it is, nor in what it is to end.
Go where I will, everybody seems anxious to get a peep at me; and it
would be hard to tell which would have the advantage if I and the
‘Government’ [Jackson] and ‘Black Hawk’ [Adam Huntsman, his competitor
in the Congressional campaigns], and a great big eternal caravan of
wild varments were all to be showed at the same time in four different
parts of any of the big cities in the nation. I am not so sure that I
should not get the most custom of any of the crew. There must therefore
be something in me, or about me, that attracts attention, which is even
mysterious to myself.”
In one instance Davy uses the words, “Just as Clay and Webster and
myself are preparing to fix bank matters, on account of the scarcity
of money.” He also speaks of “a few such men as Clay and Webster and
myself.” His reflections at this time throw light upon the sudden
turning-point in his career, a few years later.
When Davy arrived at Washington, the news of the great naval battle of
Navarino had just arrived by the clipper ship _North Star_, twelve days
from London. When she rounded to in Baltimore harbor, stowing her sails
with trim precision almost before her anchor caught, the men of the
sea were more interested in the “cracker-jack” run than in the news
she brought. When Davy heard of the incidents connected with the naval
battle, he is said to have remarked that “when three kinds of wild
varments get to hunting together, Uncle Sam would better be looking
out for his sheep.” He referred to the fact that during four hours of
the afternoon of October 20, 1827, the combined squadrons of England,
Russia, and France, made up of ten ships of the line, ten frigates, and
nine smaller vessels, had shot to pieces or sunk under fire more than
one hundred war-vessels of the Turkish navy, under Moharem Bey, four
thousand Moslems being killed or drowned. The battle of Navarino failed
to wake Uncle Sam to his need of a navy, and until the wolves, in the
shape of the _Florida_ and the _Alabama_ and other ships quite as
daring, began to thin his flock, he remained asleep. The politicians of
1827 to 1840 were men who fought each other with any weapons they could
wield, and, in want of weapon, they used filth and mud. A merciful
oblivion has covered with the dust of many years their words and deeds.
XVI.
IN CONGRESS
Davy’s place in politics――He is elected for a second term――His
opposition to President Jackson――After two terms in Congress, he is
defeated by a contemptible trick――The influence of the Murrell gang is
felt――Two years in retirement――Writing his autobiography――The Middle
Fork camp-meeting――The wildcat hunter from the Wolf Creek Branch――At
a shooting-match――The generosity of Davy――He is elected by a large
majority.
During his first term in Congress, in 1828 and 1829, Davy seems to have
been lined up with the Jackson faction, which was opposed to the Adams
administration, then allied with the friends of Henry Clay. In 1828
Andrew Jackson was elected President by a remarkable percentage of the
electoral college, and Davy Crockett, one of his former scouts, watched
him as he rode to the Capitol, dismounted, and with lifted hand swore
loyalty to the nation that had chosen him for the highest place in its
power to give. How many have pictured the rude simplicity of such
a proceeding――the rugged soldier, the sorry steed! Their democratic
souls have been much deceived. Jackson’s horse was the finest that
could be found in Kentucky or Tennessee. He wore no uniform, but in
his broadcloth coat and ruffles he sat his saddle like a king, more
stately, more exemplary of power, than many of his successors who have
been seated upon the velvet cushions of landaus.
There was a rattling of dry bones in the Departments as Old Hickory
swept from power and position hundreds of the appointees of his
predecessors. The now familiar cry, “To the victors belong the spoils,”
became the slogan of his followers. Davy seems to have had no place in
the crowd that fawned about their master’s feet. He may have seen the
ill-mannered mob that thrust aside the doorkeepers of the White House
at the public receptions, invaded the parlors and dining-rooms, climbed
upon the satin upholsteries, and fell upon the refreshments like the
locusts of Egypt, “filling the houses, and eating the residue of that
which escaped”; but of his two years’ term he has written hardly
a hundred words. He went back to his cabin home, conducted another
campaign, and was again elected by an overwhelming majority of nearly
3,600 votes.
During Davy’s second term, in 1830 and 1831, Jackson urged the removal
of the Cherokees and other Indian tribes from the lands east of the
Mississippi. Davy did not see the relentless power of advancing
civilization behind the unquiet of the frontier, and the impossibility
of resisting the impulse towards the separation of the whites and the
aborigines, and voted against the removal, in spite of strenuous urging
by those who favored it. It was of this vote that he has said:
“I would rather be honestly and politically damned than to be
hypocritically immortalized.”
Returning again to his district, in 1831, he found, as he says, the
storm raised against him. He was accused of the unpardonable sin of
turning against Jackson.
“I was hunted down like a wild varment,” he has told us, “and in this
hunt every little paper in the district, and every little pin-hook
lawyer, was engaged.” He was accused of receiving pay for sessions
from which he was absent, and his wrath was kindled by these charges
of dishonesty in doing what every other Congressman had done. His
district was “gerrymandered,” and all the political weapons of his
opponents were set to work. In the language of the cowboy of a later
generation, “they wore their guns, and they wore ’em mighty low.” Davy
was beaten by a smart and entirely unscrupulous scheme. He says that
the “little four-pence-ha’penny limbs of the law” gave notice all over
the district of dates upon which Crockett would appear to explain his
actions in Congress and his reasons for his opposition to Jackson. When
crowd after crowd gathered at the time and place announced, the absence
of Crockett――entirely unaware of the trick that was being played――was
laid to his fear of facing the issues raised. He was afraid, the
“four-pence-ha’penny lawyers” cried, and the disappointed voters went
to their homes stirred with doubt and resentment. When the votes were
counted in August, Davy was in the majority in seventeen counties, but
in Madison County, the home of the Murrell outlaws and their allies,
his opponent had enough to overcome all that Davy had in the rest of
the district.