says Davy, “they had better keep some of these things for somebody
else to eat, thinks I, for I’m sure I’m as full as a young cub.”
But the invitation was accepted. After Judge Clayton, of Georgia,
had made a speech that “made the tumblers hop,” Colonel Crockett was
formally toasted as “the undeviating supporter of the Constitution and
the Laws.” He responded to the toast in a short speech, in which he
referred to the impossibility of plowing a straight furrow towards the
cow that kept moving about. If he had followed Jackson, he said, his
furrow would have been as crooked as the one made by the boy who had
plowed all the forenoon after that kind of a cow.
The next day was the 1st of May, and while driving about in a barouche
with Colonel S. D. Jackson, he was astonished at the number of loads
of furniture he saw in the streets. When told that it was moving-day,
he remarked that it would take a good deal to get him out of his own
log-house; such restlessness was beyond his understanding. They then
drove to the Five Points, which Dickens said could be backed, in
respect to wretchedness, against Seven Dials or any other part of St.
Giles’s. The sight of so much squalor and misery made Davy wonder what
could induce human beings to stay in such places, instead of “clearing
out for a new country, where every hide hangs by its own tail.”
As Davy walked back to the American Hotel, after leaving the Colonel,
he was introduced to Albert Gallatin, the celebrated scholar, volunteer
soldier, suppressor of the Whiskey Insurrection, and Jefferson’s
Secretary of the Treasury. The old veteran of seventy-three, straw hat
in hand, was also “moving,” Davy says. He pointed out to him the house
he was leaving, which was about to be torn down, with others, to be
replaced by a big tavern to be built by John Jacob Astor, and to cover
a whole square. Before Davy left, a day or so later, he saw the roofs
of the houses torn off by the workmen. The big tavern was the famous
Astor House.
Some time during the same day, a new flag was hoisted at the Battery,
then the favorite promenade of the fashionables of the city. Davy was
invited, and witnessed a parade of the artillery, under command of
General Morton, formerly of the Revolutionary army. An entertainment
followed, in which eating and drinking played the usual prominent part.
Davy seems to have been greatly pleased with the Battery and its views
of the bay and islands about. “It is a beautiful meadow of a place,” he
says, “all measured off, with nice walks of gravel between the grass
plats, full of big shade trees, and filled with people and a great many
children, that come there to get the fresh air that comes off the water
of the bay.”
Early the next morning Davy visited Thorburn’s renowned seed-store,
and from there went to a rifle match in Jersey City. There he hit a
quarter at forty yards, off-hand, with a strange gun, and made other
shots that sustained his reputation as a marksman. He was used up with
sight-seeing, and was glad to go to Boston at the invitation of another
new-made friend, Captain Comstock, in command of one of the Long Island
steamboats. On the way to the dock they drove around through South
and Front Streets. Here the queen clippers of the world lay moored,
with their bowsprits high above the pavements, and their rigged-in
jib-booms almost touching the buildings along the water-front.
At three o’clock the steamer _Providence_ sailed with Davy on board,
but not until a crowd of people had come to see him off. He responded
with many bows, and the ship slipped out of the dock amid the cheers
of the multitude. The passengers then gathered about him, and before
their curiosity was satisfied the city was out of sight. As they passed
through Hell Gate, a large, full-rigged British ship was seen coming in
from the other side. This sight was an object lesson as to the need of
coast defenses.
Davy was a good sailor, and walked the decks off Point Judith the next
morning, without being seasick in the least. The sun came up like a
ball of fire, and Davy says that it looked as it was brand-new. The
sight of many stone fences amused him greatly, and he remarked that one
of his cows would pitch over a dozen of that kind, “without flirting
her tail.”
At Providence, where they landed about noon, another crowd greeted him.
Refusing an invitation to stop at that city, Davy took his seat in
the fast stage for Boston. “The driver was ordered to go ahead,” says
Davy, “and sure enough he did. It was forty miles to Boston, and we run
it down in four hours.” The stony nature of the land was a source of
surprise to Davy, accustomed to the rich alluvium of Tennessee. He says
the stones covered the earth as thick as Kentucky land-titles, and he
wondered why the Lord hadn’t sent the Pilgrims better pilots.
Arrived in Boston, Davy landed at the Tremont House, which he calls a
tavern, kept by Mr. Boyden.
“Mr. Boyden did not know me,” says Davy, “nor me him; but when I told
him my name, where they put it on the bar-book, he treated me like an
old friend, and continued to do so all the time I was there. He gave
me a good room and a nice bed, and attended to me the kindest in the
world. I had seen a great many fine taverns; but take this in and out,
and Tremont House is a smart chance ahead.”
The first day in Boston was the occasion of a visit to Faneuil Hall,
where General Davis showed Davy the arms and cannon of the State
militia. The complete order, and the realization of the possibility of
sending out the troops at a few minutes’ notice, deeply impressed the
former scout.
“General Davis informed me,” he says, “that this was the house that was
called the Cradle of Liberty. I reckon that old King George thought
they were thundering fine children that was rocked in it, and a good
many of them; and that no wonder his red-coats were licked, when the
children came out with soldier clothes on and muskets in their hands.
God grant that the liberty bough on which this cradle rocks may never
break!”
At Roxbury, Davy was given a rubber hunting-coat, something entirely
novel to him. This coat he afterwards took with him when he went
to Texas. He next visited the good ship _Constitution_, and the
battleground of Bunker Hill, where the great monument was already begun.
“I felt like calling them up,” he said, “and asking them to tell me
how to help best to protect the liberty they bought for us with their
blood; but as I could not do so, I resolved on that holy ground to go
for my country, always and everywhere.” These were no idle words that
Davy spoke.
Out of many invitations to dinner offered by the hospitable citizens,
Davy chose that of the Young Whigs, at which a hundred were present.
This was perhaps the crowning festivity of his journey.
Another day was taken up in viewing The Commons, in climbing to the
dome of the State House, and in entertaining with one of the Western
speeches a great crowd in front of that building. He declined an
invitation to visit Harvard. In telling of this, he says that he would
run no risk of having LL.D. tacked on to his name. “There had been one
doctor made from Tennessee already, and I had no wish to put on the cap
and bells.” This is a reference to Jackson.
Everywhere he went Davy found new evidences of friendship and
hospitality. In Lowell, Mr. Lawrence presented to him a fine piece of
broadcloth made from Mississippi wool. There was also another dinner
here, as well attended as that given by the Young Whigs at Boston.
When Davy called for his score at the Tremont House, before leaving
for New York, he was told that he was an honored guest, and that there
was nothing to pay. He was warmed through and through with New England
hospitality, and left Boston with a heart full of gratitude. His return
to Washington, by way of Providence, New York, and Philadelphia, was
uneventful, except that his pocket-book was stolen at Camden, with
one hundred and sixty dollars in money, a sum of much importance in a
time when money was hard to get. Tired out with his continuous round
of pleasure, Davy was glad to get back to his seat in Congress, where
he was welcomed by his fellow-members as a man who had reaped special
honor and distinction from the exclusives of the older States. He was
in Washington but a few days before Congress adjourned.
The year 1834 is memorable for the election of Abraham Lincoln as a
member of the Illinois Legislature, and for the emancipation of all
slaves in the British colonies. The presence of General Sam Houston in
Texas had begun to lead to results. Already the Americans in that part
of Mexico had taken the bit in their teeth, and were running things as
if they recognized no other authority than their own. They could not go
back, nor did they wish to cross the great strip of sand and trickling
water called the Grand River of the North. They purposed to rule to the
Rio Grande’s banks, and every man who went to Texas from the States
carried a gun, lots of ammunition, and words of cheer.
XIX.
THE RIFLE “BETSY”
The adjournment of Congress――The rifle “Betsy” is presented to Davy
at Philadelphia――Meets Daniel Webster and others at the Fish-House
Club――He is given a supply of hunting powder by Mr. Dupont――The fast
line to Pittsburg, by rail and canal――Charles Dickens’ notes on the
same route――Davy foretells the greatness of the Smoky City and the
Keystone State――The voyage down the Ohio River――The greatest crowd that
Louisville had ever seen――Arrival at Mills’ Point, and the homeward
drive through the wilderness――The baying of the hounds at the sight
of their master――More news from Texas――The expulsion of the gamblers
from Mississippi――The adventurers flock to the Rio Grande――Another year
at Washington――Davy returns over the mountain trail――Begins another
campaign.
When Congress adjourned, about the 1st of July, 1834, Davy went to
Philadelphia, intending to return to the Obion by way of the “Fast
Line” of stages, canals, and steamboats between Harrisburg and
Louisville. After he arrived at the United States Hotel, a committee
waited upon him, and at an hour set for the event he was given the
rifle which had been made for him under John M. Sanderson’s direction.
In reply to the speech of presentation, Davy used these memorable words:
“If it should become necessary to use her in defense of liberty, in
my time, I will do as I have done before; and if in the struggle I am
buried in the dust, I will leave her in the hands of some one who will
honor your present, in standing for our country’s rights.”
The rifle was a fine specimen of the best Pennsylvania workmanship,
and accompanying it were a tomahawk, hunting-knife, and all the
accoutrements that went with a gun.
During the next few days Davy spoke at the Fourth of July performance
in the Chestnut Street Theatre, met Daniel Webster and other
celebrities at the Fish-House club on the Schuylkill, and received a
present of half a dozen canisters of the best brand of Dupont’s powder
from Mr. Dupont in person. He then started for Pittsburg. Arriving at
Harrisburg by rail, he took up his quarters upon the canal-boat which
Dickens has minutely described in the chapter ending with this mention
of the stuffy cabin of the best packet on the line:
“No doubt it would have been a thought more comfortable if the driving
rain, which now poured down more soakingly than ever, had admitted of
a window being opened, or if our number had been something less than
thirty; but there was scarcely time to think as much, when a train of
three horses was attached to the tow-rope, the boy upon the leader
cracked his whip, the rudder creaked and groaned complainingly, and we
had begun our journey.”
Two and a half days were used up in going to the foothills of the
Allegheny Mountains. Between the western end of the canal and the
other, or western, side of the mountains, there was then a railway,
over which the cars, or coaches, were hauled by stationary engines,
there being five inclines, or switch-backs, on each side. From this
railway the trip continued by another canal, and upon the evening of
the fourth day Davy found himself for the first time in the Smoky City.
He was enthusiastic over the future of the State. He saw in Pittsburg
a perfect workshop, increasing every year in extent, beauty, and
population.
His voyage down the Ohio was enlivened by salutes from the citizens
of various towns, by speaking at Cincinnati, and by the gathering of
the largest crowd that Louisville had ever known. Dickens gives this
description of the voyage down the Ohio:
“A fine broad river always, but in some parts much wider than in
others; and then there is usually a green island, covered with trees,
dividing it into two streams. Occasionally we stop for a few minutes,
maybe to take on wood, maybe for passengers, at some small town or
city (I ought to say city, every place is a city here), but the banks
are for the most part deep solitudes, overgrown with trees, already in
leaf and very green. For miles, and miles, and miles, these solitudes
are unbroken by any sign of human life or trace of human footstep;
nor is anything seen to move about them but the blue-jay, whose color
is so bright and yet so delicate, that it looks like a flying flower.
At long intervals, a log cabin, with its little space of cleared land
about it, nestles under a rising ground, and sends its thread of blue
smoke curling up into the sky. It stands in the corner of the poor
field of wheat, which is full of great unsightly stumps, like earthly
butchers’-blocks. Sometimes the ground is only just now cleared: the
felled trees lying yet upon the soil, and the log house only this
morning begun. As we pass this clearing, the settler leans upon his
ax or hammer, and looks wistfully at the people from the world. The
children creep out of their temporary hut, which is like a gipsy tent
upon the ground, and clap their hands and shout. The dog only glances
round at us, and then looks up into his master’s face again, as if he
were rendered uneasy by any suspension of the common business, and had
nothing more to do with pleasures. And there is still the same, eternal
foreground.”
From Louisville Davy left for Mills’ Point with his “trunk, gun-case,
old lady’s pitcher [a present for his wife], and all,” and on July
22d found his son William waiting for him with a team. After a rough
drive of thirty-five miles, a glimpse of waving corn gleamed through
the scattered pines, and like a voice from the other world rang the cry
of the bear-hunter through the wilderness. The scarred and sorrowful
hounds about the cabin leaped to their feet as they caught the welcome
sound, and with baying that gave the bears of the “harricane” an uneasy
quarter of an hour, the gaunt pack rushed to meet the master they loved
so well. At his own door there was the joyful reunion to which, in the
midst of civic honors and the luxuries of civilization, Davy had looked
forward with unsuppressed longing. As the family and the neighbors
crowded about him, he placed upon a rude mantel the china pitcher for
his wife, and took from its leather case the splendid rifle given him
in Philadelphia. There was joy and wonder in plenty for all. His suit
of broadcloth was touched with something like awe and reverence by
those who had worn homespun all their lives.
When the neighbors came together, from time to time, Davy heard the
stories of some who were just from the Texas border, or from that
unquiet land itself. There were twenty thousand Americans already
there, sullen with wrath against the officials of the dual government
of Texas and Coahuila who enforced harsh orders and arbitrary laws
by means of renegades and ignorant natives in gaudy uniforms. No man
like Stephen F. Austin could endure the sight of these rude and often
bloodthirsty creatures. The man in a hunting coat became the natural
enemy of the officer with gorgeous epaulets and dirty linen, who
relied upon the glitter of a clumsy blade to overawe the keen-eyed
riflemen from Kentucky and Tennessee. Such matters as these, frequently
discussed, awoke in the hunters of the Obion a longing to free their
friends and relatives from Mexican rule. The question of Mexico’s right
to rule was not considered. The thirteen colonies had grown too great
for the mother tree, and, taking new root in the land of their choice,
had severed in the whirlwind passions of rebellion the ligaments that
hampered both. There was at the bottom of the discontent in Texas the
working of the old, invincible law, the “simple plan,”
“That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.”
In the summer of this year the people of Vicksburg rose against the
gamblers, thieves, and slave-stealers that had become as fierce and
daring as the fabled vampires of the Persian vales. Some they hanged,
some they told to “stand not upon the order of their going,” while
others without warning had taken a wise departure, heading toward the
unsettled frontiers, especially Texas, as havens of refuge and fields
for future operations. Side by side with sturdy settlers, seeking homes
on Texas soil in defiance of Santa Anna’s edict, went the wandering
pirates of Barataria Bay and Galveston Island, followers of Lafitte.
They scented battle afar off, and added fuel to the beacon-fires of
revolution that blazed along the Rio Grande.
When the time came for his return to Washington, Davy left for that
city with regret that he could not try the new rifle along the banks of
the Obion. He entrusted his political affairs to his friends, and went
back to oppose Jackson, regardless of the consequences, which he had
no idea would ever become serious.
Before Davy had left Nashville there came stirring news from Texas: a
meeting of men favoring open rebellion had taken place at San Antonio
in October, and Santa Anna had practically suspended the protection of
civil government. The message of the President to Congress made but
slight allusion to this state of affairs, but the interests of the
South, seeking more slave territory, were in line with the friends
of liberty, and the prospect of a war beyond the borders grew more
imminent every day. Davy kept his ear to the ground and watched the
progress of events with anxiety.
After the same old round of wasted time, bitter speeches, and scant
accomplishment, Congress adjourned, and Davy returned home by the old
trail over the mountains.
It was in June that he went down the western slopes of the range,
through a wild waste of trees and flowers. In the cold coves the laurel
still glowed; the lady’s slipper, least of all the orchid sisterhood,
swung beside the way; the Indian pine gleamed like a ghostly memory of
departed tribes:
“The violets were past their prime,
Yet their departing breath
Was sweeter, in the blast of death,
Than all the fragrance of the time.”
They were the same birds, it seemed, that flew like bits of flame
across his boyhood paths. The bluebird and the yellow warbler still
rivalled the scarlet tanager in their splendid liveries, while
the thrush, the cat-bird, and the riotous mocking-bird filled the
wilderness with a flood of melodies. Past the tumbling cabin at the
Limestone’s mouth, past the gentle confluence of the now tame Cove
Creek with the Nolichucky, standing at last near the shaky tavern from
which his father and mother had gone to their quiet graves, he longed
for the sweet perplexities of his childhood as one longs for a drink
from the far-away mossy spring where the luscious berries grew, and the
arbutus dropped fragrant petals to its edge. He would have rejoiced
if the dear ones who had gone to rest might have known of the honors
that had come to their barefoot boy. He was nearing fifty years, now,
and realized that all men wish to live long lives, yet would not grow
old. Already the contest for reëlection had begun in his district. He
was confident, with yet a trace of the doubt that always precedes the
unattained. He looked in mute farewell at the old scenes, and went his
way.
The political campaign was beginning to seethe with excitement. In
the Eastern States some considerations of decency prevented utter
recklessness in political warfare, but in a State which had not yet
outgrown the knife and pistol methods of meeting slander, the owner
of a paper had no idea of hanging for a lamb, when he might easily
take a sheep. The choicest billingsgate and the most ingenious lying,
emanating from all parts of a candidate’s district at once, made
fighting the slanderers almost too big a contract for one man. But
the rifle was always carried, or a pair of clumsy pistols ready,
and license of speech was thereby restricted in public. At one of
the meetings Davy was asked why all the Congressmen were not given
rifles like his. He answered that he got the gun for being honest
and supporting his country, instead of “bowing down and worshipping
an idol”――the idol, of course, being Andrew Jackson. The big fellow
who was thus answered replied with a rather incredulous air that the
statement was pretty strong. “No stronger than true,” was the quick
response, as each man went his way. In everything Davy seems to have
been certain that he was right. In his simple faith, he thought himself
sure of the support of all honest men, forgetting that even honest men
may “see through a glass darkly,” and differ much.
XX.
OFF FOR TEXAS
Davy is defeated for Congress――Another scalp for Old Hickory――Davy’s
defeat is a crushing blow――He decides to go to Texas――Takes a sad leave
of his family and sets forth in hunting suit with “Betsy” over his
shoulder――On board the _Mediterranean_ to Helena――The eighty thousand
dollar fund, of which Bowie, Fannin, Travis, and Crockett are named
as trustees――More about Texas affairs――Davy starts from Little Rock
for Fulton, on the way to San Antonio――The travelling parson and the
Washita――Davy’s faith in God――Meets with Thimblerig, the gambler――The
gambler enlists with Colonel Crockett.
“I begin this chapter,” says Davy’s account of the campaign, “at
home, in Weakley County. I have just returned from a two weeks’
electioneering canvass, and I have spoken every day to large concourses
of people, with my competitor. I have him badly plagued, for he does
not know as much about the ‘Government,’ the deposites [referring to
the United States Bank], and the Little Flying Dutchman [Van Buren],
as I can tell the people; and at times he is as much bothered as a fly
in a tar-pot to get out of the mess. His name is Adam Huntsman; he
lost a leg in an Indian fight, they say, during the last war, and the
Government run him on account of his military services. I tell him in
my speech that I have great hopes of writing one more book, and that
shall be the second fall of Adam, for he is on the Eve of an Almighty
thrashing. He relishes the joke about as much as a doctor does his own
physic. I handle the administration without gloves, and I do believe
I will double my competitor, if I have a fair shake, and he does not
work like a mole in the dark. Jacksonism is dying here faster than it
ever sprung up, and I predict that ‘The Government’ will be the most
unpopular man, in one year more, that ever had any pretensions to
the high place he now fills. Four weeks from to-morrow will end the
dispute in our elections, and if old Adam is not beaten out of his
hunting-shirt, my name isn’t Crockett.”
This was Davy’s state of mind in July, 1835. The election took place
about the 1st of August, and he had yet to learn that many of the fair
words received, and many of the promises, were of no more value, to use
his own words, “than a flash in the pan when you have a good shot at a
fat bear.”
Under the special directions of Andrew Jackson, every means of beating
Davy Crockett was put in practice. Copies of the _Globe_, franked by
his opponents, accused Davy of collecting excess mileage, of being a
traitor to the interests of his State, of fawning upon the aristocrats
of the Eastern States, of everything that could be urged against him.
When the die was cast, he writes, in the gloom of defeat, these words: