Part 9

“I could see the lump, but not plain enough to shoot with any certainty, as there was no moonlight; and so I set in to hunting for some dry bush to make me a light; but I could find none, though I could find that the ground was torn mightily to pieces by the cracks.

“At last I thought I could shoot by guess, and kill him; so I pointed as near the lump as I could, and fired away. But the bear didn’t come, he only clumb up higher, and got out on a limb, which helped me to see him better. I now loaded up and fired again, but he didn’t move at all this time. I commenced loading for a third fire, but the first thing I know’d, the bear was down among my dogs, and they were fighting all around me. I had my big butcher-knife in my belt, and I had a pair of dressed buckskin breeches on. So I took out my knife, and stood, determined, if he should get hold of me, to defend myself in the best way I could. I stood there for some time, and could now and then see a white dog I had, but the rest of them, and the bear, I couldn’t see at all, it was so miserable dark.

“They still fought around me, and within three feet of me; but at last the bear got down into one of the cracks that the earthquake had made in the ground, about four feet, and I could tell the biting end of him by the hollering of my dogs. So I took my gun and pushed the muzzle of it about till I thought I had it against the main part of his body, and fired; but it happened to be only the fleshy part of his foreleg. With this he jumped out of the crack, and he and the dogs had another hard fight around me, as before. At last, however, they forced him back into the crack again, as he was when I had shot.

“I then began to hunt for my gun, which I had laid down in the dark; and, while hunting, I got hold of a pole, and I concluded I would punch him with it awhile. I did so, and when I would punch him, the dogs would jump in on him, when he would bite them badly and they would jump out again. I concluded, as he would take punching so patiently, it might be that he would lie still enough for me to get down into the crack, and feel slowly along till I could find the right place to give him a dig with my butcher. So I got down, and my dogs got in front of him and kept his head towards them, till I got along easily up to him; and, placing my hand on his rump, felt for his shoulder, just behind where I intended to stick him. I made a lunge with my long knife, and fortunately struck him right through the heart, at which he just sank down, and I crawled out in a hurry.”

Davy had to stay all night at the place where he had killed the bear, and nearly froze to death before morning. To avoid this, he hit upon a plan that would be impossible for most men to carry out. He found a two-foot tree near-by, without limbs for thirty feet, and by climbing it as far as the forks, and then sliding back to the ground, he managed to keep his blood in circulation.

When McDaniel afterwards saw what Davy had done, he said he wouldn’t have gone down into the place with the bear for all the bears in the woods.

The two men worked and hunted all the next day, and at night were glad to rest. They had gone to sleep as near the fire as they dared, when something happened; as Davy says, “About ten o’clock there came a most terrible earthquake, which shook the earth so that we were rocked about like we had been in a cradle. We were very much alarmed; for though we were accustomed to feel earthquakes, we were now right in the region which had been torn to pieces by them in 1812, and we thought it might take a notion and swallow us up, as the big fish did Jonah.”

When the hunt ended, and the meat had been packed to their homes, both McDaniel and Davy had enough and to spare. Davy says that during the fall and up to January, he killed fifty-eight bears, thus adding to his already great renown as a bear-hunter.

XIV.

THE MISSISSIPPI FLOOD

The flat-boats start for New Orleans――All hands appalled by the Mississippi’s flood――A good-for-nothing pilot――They try in vain to make a landing――Passing the “Devil’s Elbow”――Uncle Julius is “mighty scared”――The darky’s song――A sudden wreck, and a close call for Davy――The crew sit all night on the flood-trash of an island in the middle of the river――They are rescued by a steamboat and landed at Memphis――Davy finds a friend in Major Winchester――His return home.

The bears having taken to their winter hiding places――at least, those that Davy and his partners had not killed――there was nothing to keep back the work of splitting staves and completing the two boats. The latter were of the flat-bottom sort, strongly built of hewed timbers, and planks sawed in pits or upon scaffolds. They were caulked and pitched, and each had a well for the purpose of bailing water that leaked in. The decks were flat, with a small hatchway house over the entrance of the cabin below it. On board of a ship this would be called the companionway. The steering was done with a long sweep, or oar, at the stern, and sometimes with poles. Thirty thousand staves were put on board the two boats, and as soon as everything was ready a start was made.

The Deer and the Obion Rivers flow into the Mississippi at no great distance apart. Near the mouth of the Obion, a lake or bayou joins the channels, and this lake is thought by many to be the one upon whose shores the boats were built. As Davy was but a short time in getting his fleet out of the Obion and into the Mississippi, the lake must have been near the latter river. When they floated out into the Father of Waters, as the Indians call the great river, the venturous woodsmen were appalled by the immensity of the flood upon which they were borne swiftly along. Across the mile or more of yellow water that reached from shore to shore, bordered with leafless sycamores and cypress swamps, they saw new perils loom at every curve of the tortuous stream. The river flows at the rate of two hundred feet per minute, and as island after island, and bend after bend, had to be avoided or navigated with all the strength and watchfulness that was in them, it is not to be wondered at that, as Davy says, all the hands were “bad scared.”

Davy’s motto had always been to “go ahead,” but now he seems to have had no choice. He had never been down the river, probably never before had seen it, and the man hired as pilot was found to be a fraud. As the two boats were constantly either drifting apart or bumping into each other, they were lashed together, in the hope that in that way they might be more manageable.

Towards night they fell in with some boats from the Ohio, and when Davy wanted to make a landing, and tried without success to stop at the river’s banks, the Ohio boatmen shouted to him to keep on and run all night. He didn’t want then to “go ahead,” but there was no other way. The clumsy craft were always trying to butt into trouble. Sawyers, and planters, and sand-bars, and right-about curves of the channel, were forcing the crew to superhuman exertions, partly because they trusted to main strength without skill. Soon after they gave up trying to land, they came to a place called “The Devil’s Elbow.” Here Davy says he had the hardest work of his life. He twice attempted to land at Wood-yards, but could not. The people on shore tried to guide them with lights, and shouted to direct their efforts, but the boats were too heavy to manage, and finally the exhausted crew gave up the fight, and let the river sweep them along at will.

Davy was sitting by the stove in the cabin of one of the boats, 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: