David Crockett: His Life and Adventures
by John S. C. Abbott · English · Gutenberg #4355 · 457,328 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: David Crockett: His Life and Adventures
Author: John S. C. Abbott
Release date: August 1, 2003 [eBook #4355]
Most recently updated: December 27, 2020
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAVID CROCKETT: HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES ***
Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
AMERICAN PIONEERS AND PATRIOTS.
DAVID CROCKETT:
HIS
LIFE AND ADVENTURES
BY
JOHN S. C. ABBOTT
ILLUSTRATED.
PREFACE.
David Crockett certainly was not a model man. But he was a
representative man. He was conspicuously one of a very numerous class,
still existing, and which has heretofore exerted a very powerful
influence over this republic. As such, his wild and wondrous life is
worthy of the study of every patriot. Of this class, their modes of
life and habits of thought, the majority of our citizens know as little
as they do of the manners and customs of the Comanche Indians.
No man can make his name known to the forty millions of this great and
busy republic who has not something very remarkable in his character or
his career. But there is probably not an adult American, in all these
widespread States, who has not heard of David Crockett. His life is a
veritable romance, with the additional charm of unquestionable truth.
It opens to the reader scenes in the lives of the lowly, and a state of
semi-civilization, of which but few of them can have the faintest idea.
It has not been my object, in this narrative, to defend Colonel
Crockett or to condemn him, but to present his peculiar character
exactly as it was. I have therefore been constrained to insert some
things which I would gladly have omitted.
JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.
FAIR HAVEN, CONN.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
Parentage and Childhood.
The Emigrant.--Crossing the Alleghanies.--The Boundless
Wilderness.--The Hut on the Holston.--Life's Necessaries.--The
Massacre.--Birth of David Crockett.--Peril of the
Boys.--Anecdote.--Removal to Greenville; to Cove Creek.--Increased
Emigration.--Loss of the Mill.--The Tavern.--Engagement with the
Drover.--Adventures in the Wilderness.--Virtual Captivity.--The
Escape.--The Return.--The Runaway.--New Adventures. . . . 7
CHAPTER II.
Youthful Adventures.
David at Gerardstown.--Trip to Baltimore.--Anecdotes.--He ships for
London.--Disappointment.--Defrauded of his Wages.--Escapes.--New
Adventures.--Crossing the River.--Returns Home.--His Reception.--A Farm
Laborer.--Generosity to his Father.--Love Adventure.--The Wreck of his
Hopes.--His School Education.--Second Love adventure.--Bitter
Disappointment.--Life in the Backwoods.--Third Love Adventure. . . . 35
CHAPTER III.
Marriage and Settlement.
Rustic Courtship.--The Rival Lover.--Romantic Incident. The Purchase of
a Horse.--The Wedding.--Singular Ceremonies.--The Termagant.--Bridal
Days.--They commence Housekeeping.--The Bridal mansion and
Outfit.--Family Possessions.--The Removal to Central Tennessee.--Mode
of Transportation.--The New Income and its Surroundings.--Busy
Idleness.--The Third Move.--The Massacre at Fort Mimms. . . . 54
CHAPTER IV.
The Soldier Life.
War with the Creeks.--Patriotism of Crockett.--Remonstrances of his
Wife.--Enlistment.--The Rendezvous.--Adventure of the Scouts.--Friendly
Indians,--A March through the Forest.--Picturesque Scene.--The Midnight
Alarm.--March by Moonlight.--Chagrin of Crockett.--Advance into
Alabama.--War's Desolations.--Indian Stoicism.--Anecdotes of Andrew
Jackson.--Battles, Carnage, and Woe. . . . 93
CHAPTER V.
Indian Warfare.
The Army at Fort Strother.--Crockett's Regiment.--Crockett at
Home.--His Reenlistment.--Jackson Surprised.--Military Ability of the
Indians.--Humiliation of the Creeks.--March to Florida.--Affairs at
Pensacola.--Capture of the City.--Characteristics of Crockett.--The
Weary March,--Inglorious Expedition.--Murder of Two
Indians.--Adventures at the Island.--The Continued March.--Severe
Sufferings.--Charge upon the Uninhabited Village. . . . 124
CHAPTER VI.
The Camp and the Cabin.
Deplorable Condition of the Army.--Its wanderings.--Crockett's
Benevolence.--Cruel Treatment of the Indians.--A Gleam of Good
Luck.--The Joyful Feast.--Crockett's Trade with the Indian.--Visit to
the Old Battlefield.--Bold Adventure of Crockett.--His Arrival
Home.--Death of his Wife.--Second Marriage.--Restlessness.--Exploring
Tour.--Wild Adventures.--Dangerous Sickness.--Removal to the West.--His
New Home. . . . 155
CHAPTER VII.
The Justice of Peace and the Legislator.
Vagabondage.--Measures of Protection.--Measures of
Government.--Crockett's Confession.--A Candidate for Military
Honors.--Curious Display of Moral Courage.--The Squirrel Hunt.--A
Candidate for the Legislature.--Characteristic
Electioneering.--Specimens of his Eloquence.--Great Pecuniary
Calamity.--Expedition to the Far West.--Wild Adventures.--The Midnight
Carouse.--A Cabin Reared. . . . 183
CHAPTER VIII.
Life on the Obion.
Hunting Adventures.--The Voyage up the River.--Scenes in the
Cabin.--Return Home.--Removal of the Family.--Crockett's Riches.--A
Perilous Enterprise.--Reasons for his Celebrity.--Crockett's
Narrative.--A Bear-Hunt.--Visit to Jackson.--Again a Candidate for the
Legislature.--Electioneering and Election. . . . 212
CHAPTER IX.
Adventures in the Forest, on the River, and in the City
The Bear Hunter's Story.--Service in the Legislature.--Candidate for
Congress.--Electioneering.--The New Speculation.--Disastrous
Voyage.--Narrow Escape.--New Electioneering Exploits.--Odd
Speeches.--The Visit to Crockett's Cabin.--His Political Views.--His
Honesty.--Opposition to Jackson.--Scene at Raleigh.--Dines with the
President.--Gross Caricature.--His Annoyance. . . . 240
CHAPTER X.
Crockett's Tour to the North and the East.
His Reelection to Congress.--The Northern Tour.--First Sight of a
Railroad.--Reception in Philadelphia.--His First Speech.--Arrival in
New York.--The Ovation there.--Visit to Boston.--Cambridge and
Lowell.--Specimens of his Speeches.--Expansion of his Ideas.--Rapid
Improvement. . . . 267
CHAPTER XI.
The Disappointed Politician.--Off for Texas.
Triumphal Return.--Home Charms Vanish.--Loses His Election.--Bitter
Disappointment.--Crockett's Poetry.--Sets out for Texas.--Incidents of
the Journey.--Reception at Little Rock.--The Shooting Match.--Meeting a
Clergyman.--The Juggler.--Crockett a Reformer.--The Bee Hunter.--The
Rough Strangers.--Scene on the Prairie. . . . 290
CHAPTER XII.
Adventures on the Prairie.
Disappearance of the Bee Hunter.--The Herd of Buffalo Crockett
lost.--The Fight with the Cougar.--Approach of Savages.--Their
Friendliness.--Picnic on the Prairie.--Picturesque Scene.--The Lost
Mustang recovered.--Unexpected Reunion.--Departure of the
Savages.--Skirmish with the Mexicans.--Arrival at the Alamo. . . .312
CHAPTER XIII.
Conclusion.
The Fortress of Alamo.--Colonel Bowie.--Bombardment of the
Fort.--Crockett's Journal.--Sharpshooting.--Fight outside of the
Fort.--Death of the Bee Hunter.--Kate of Nacogdoches.--Assault on the
Citadel.--Crockett a Prisoner.--His Death. . . . 340
DAVID CROCKETT.
CHAPTER I.
Parentage and Childhood.
The Emigrant.--Crossing the Alleghanies.--The boundless
Wilderness.--The Hut on the Holston.--Life's Necessaries.--The
Massacre.--Birth of David Crockett.--Peril of the
Boys.--Anecdote.--Removal to Greenville; to Cove Creek.--Increased
Emigration.--Loss of the Mill.--The Tavern.--Engagement with the
Drover.--Adventures in the Wilderness.--Virtual Captivity.--The
Escape.--The Return.--The Runaway.--New Adventures.
A little more than a hundred years ago, a poor man, by the name of
Crockett, embarked on board an emigrant-ship, in Ireland, for the New
World. He was in the humblest station in life. But very little is known
respecting his uneventful career excepting its tragical close. His
family consisted of a wife and three or four children. Just before he
sailed, or on the Atlantic passage, a son was born, to whom he gave the
name of John. The family probably landed in Philadelphia, and dwelt
somewhere in Pennsylvania, for a year or two, in one of those slab
shanties, with which all are familiar as the abodes of the poorest
class of Irish emigrants.
After a year or two, Crockett, with his little family, crossed the
almost pathless Alleghanies. Father, mother, and children trudged along
through the rugged defiles and over the rocky cliffs, on foot. Probably
a single pack-horse conveyed their few household goods. The hatchet and
the rifle were the only means of obtaining food, shelter, and even
clothing. With the hatchet, in an hour or two, a comfortable camp could
be constructed, which would protect them from wind and rain. The
camp-fire, cheering the darkness of the night, drying their often wet
garments, and warming their chilled limbs with its genial glow, enabled
them to enjoy that almost greatest of earthly luxuries, peaceful sleep.
The rifle supplied them with food. The fattest of turkeys and the most
tender steaks of venison, roasted upon forked sticks, which they held
in their hands over the coals, feasted their voracious appetites. This,
to them, was almost sumptuous food. The skin of the deer, by a rapid
and simple process of tanning, supplied them with moccasons, and
afforded material for the repair of their tattered garments.
We can scarcely comprehend the motive which led this solitary family to
push on, league after league, farther and farther from civilization,
through the trackless forests. At length they reached the Holston
River. This stream takes its rise among the western ravines of the
Alleghanies, in Southwestern Virginia. Flowing hundreds of miles
through one of the most solitary and romantic regions upon the globe,
it finally unites with the Clinch River, thus forming the majestic
Tennessee.
One hundred years ago, this whole region, west of the Alleghanies, was
an unexplored and an unknown wilderness. Its silent rivers, its
forests, and its prairies were crowded with game. Countless Indian
tribes, whose names even had never been heard east of the Alleghanies,
ranged this vast expanse, pursuing, in the chase, wild beasts scarcely
more savage than themselves.
The origin of these Indian tribes and their past history are lost in
oblivion. Centuries have come and gone, during which joys and griefs,
of which we now can know nothing, visited their humble lodges.
Providence seems to have raised up a peculiar class of men, among the
descendants of the emigrants from the Old World, who, weary of the
restraints of civilization, were ever ready to plunge into the wildest
depths of the wilderness, and to rear their lonely huts in the midst of
all its perils, privations, and hardships.
This solitary family of the Crocketts followed down the northwestern
banks of the Hawkins River for many a weary mile, until they came to a
spot which struck their fancy as a suitable place to build their Cabin.
In subsequent years a small village called Rogersville was gradually
reared upon this spot, and the territory immediately around was
organized into what is now known as Hawkins County. But then, for
leagues in every direction, the solemn forest stood in all its
grandeur. Here Mr. Crockett, alone and unaided save by his wife and
children, constructed a little shanty, which could have been but little
more than a hunter's camp. He could not lift solid logs to build a
substantial house. The hard-trodden ground was the only floor of the
single room which he enclosed. It was roofed with bark of trees piled
heavily on, which afforded quite effectual protection from the rain. A
hole cut through the slender logs was the only window. A fire was built
in one corner, and the smoke eddied through a hole left in the roof.
The skins of bears, buffaloes, and wolves provided couches, all
sufficient for weary ones, who needed no artificial opiate to promote
sleep. Such, in general, were the primitive homes of many of those bold
emigrants who abandoned the comforts of civilized life for the
solitudes of the wilderness.
They did not want for most of what are called the necessaries of life.
The river and the forest furnished a great variety of fish and game.
Their hut, humble as it was, effectually protected them from the
deluging tempest and the inclement cold. The climate was genial in a
very high degree, and the soil, in its wonderful fertility, abundantly
supplied them with corn and other simple vegetables. But the silence
and solitude which reigned are represented, by those who experienced
them, as at times something dreadful.
One principal motive which led these people to cross the mountains, was
the prospect of an ultimate fortune in the rise of land. Every man who
built a cabin and raised a crop of grain, however small, was entitled
to four hundred acres of land, and a preemption right to one thousand
more adjoining, to be secured by a land-office warrant.
In this lonely home, Mr. Crockett, with his wife and children, dwelt
for some months, perhaps years--we know not how long. One night, the
awful yell of the savage was heard, and a band of human demons came
rushing upon the defenceless family. Imagination cannot paint the
tragedy which ensued. Though this lost world, ever since the fall of
Adam, has been filled to repletion with these scenes of woe, it causes
one's blood to curdle in his veins as he contemplates this one deed of
cruelty and blood.
The howling fiends were expeditious in their work. The father and
mother were pierced by arrows, mangled with the tomahawk, and scalped.
One son, severely wounded, escaped into the forest. Another little boy,
who was deaf and dumb, was taken captive and carried by the Indians to
their distant tribe, where he remained, adopted into the tribe, for
about eighteen years. He was then discovered by some of his relatives,
and was purchased back at a considerable ransom. The torch was applied
to the cabin, and the bodies of the dead were consumed in the crackling
flames.
What became of the remainder of the children, if there were any others
present in this midnight scene of conflagration and blood, we know not.
There was no reporter to give us the details. We simply know that in
some way John Crockett, who subsequently became the father of that
David whose history we now write, was not involved in the general
massacre. It is probable that he was not then with the family, but that
he was a hired boy of all work in some farmer's family in Pennsylvania.
As a day-laborer he grew up to manhood, and married a woman in his own
sphere of life, by the name of Mary Hawkins. He enlisted as a common
soldier in the Revolutionary War, and took part in the battle of King's
Mountain. At the close of the war he reared a humble cabin in the
frontier wilds of North Carolina. There he lived for a few years, at
but one remove, in point of civilization, from the savages around him.
It is not probable that either he or his wife could read or write. It
is not probable that they had any religious thoughts; that their minds
ever wandered into the regions of that mysterious immortality which
reaches out beyond the grave. Theirs was apparently purely an animal
existence, like that of the Indian, almost like that of the wild
animals they pursued in the chase.
At length, John Crockett, with his wife and three or four children,
unintimidated by the awful fate of his father's family, wandered from
North Carolina, through the long and dreary defiles of the mountains,
to the sunny valleys and the transparent skies of East Tennessee. It
was about the year 1783. Here he came to a rivulet of crystal water,
winding through majestic forests and plains of luxuriant verdure. Upon
a green mound, with this stream flowing near his door, John Crockett
built his rude and floorless hut. Punching holes in the soil with a
stick, he dropped in kernels of corn, and obtained a far richer harvest
than it would be supposed such culture could produce. As we have
mentioned, the building of this hut and the planting of this crop made
poor John Crockett the proprietor of four hundred acres of land of
almost inexhaustible fertility.
In this lonely cabin, far away in the wilderness, David Crockett was
born, on the 17th of August, 1786. He had then four brothers.
Subsequently four other children were added to the family.
His childhood's home was more humble than the majority of the readers
of this volume can imagine. It was destitute of everything which, in a
higher state of civilization, is deemed essential to comfort. The
wigwam of the Indian afforded as much protection from the weather, and
was as well furnished, as the cabin of logs and bark which sheltered
his father's family. It would seem, from David Crockett's
autobiography, that in his childhood he went mainly without any
clothing, like the pappooses of an Indian squaw. These facts of his
early life must be known, that we may understand the circumstances by
which his peculiar character was formed.
He had no instruction whatever in religion, morals, manners, or mental
culture. It cannot be supposed that his illiterate parents were very
gentle in their domestic discipline, or that their example could have
been of any essential advantage in preparing him for the arduous
struggle of life. It would be difficult to find any human being, in a
civilized land, who can have enjoyed less opportunities for moral
culture than David Crockett enjoyed in his early years.
There was quite a fall on the Nolachucky River, a little below the
cabin of John Crockett. Here the water rushed foaming over the rocks,
with fury which would at once swamp any canoe. When David was four or
five years old, and several other emigrants had come and reared their
cabins in that vicinity, he was one morning out playing with his
brothers on the bank of the river. There was a canoe tied to the shore.
The boys got into it, and, to amuse themselves, pushed out into the
stream, leaving little David, greatly to his indignation, on the shore.
But the boys did not know how to manage the canoe, and though they
plied the paddies with all vigor, they soon found themselves caught in
the current, and floating rapidly down toward the falls, where, should
they be swept over, the death of all was inevitable.
A man chanced to be working in a field not far distant. He heard the
cries of the boys and saw their danger. There was not a moment to be
lost. He started upon the full run, throwing off coat and waistcoat and
shoes, in his almost frantic speed, till he reached the water. He then
plunged in, and, by swimming and wading, seized the canoe when it was
within but about twenty feet of the roaring falls. With almost
superhuman exertions he succeeded in dragging it to the shore.
This event David Crockett has mentioned as the first which left any
lasting imprint upon his memory. Not long after this, another
occurrence took place characteristic of frontier life. Joseph Hawkins,
a brother of David's mother, crossed the mountains and joined the
Crockett family in their forest home. One morning he went out to shoot
a deer, repairing to a portion of the forest much frequented by this
animal. As he passed a very dense thicket, he saw the boughs swaying to
and fro, where a deer was apparently browsing. Very cautiously he crept
within rifle-shot, occasionally catching a glimpse, through the thick
foliage, of the ear of the animal,--as he supposed.
Taking deliberate aim he fired, and immediately heard a loud outcry.
Rushing to the spot, he found that he had shot a neighbor, who was
there gathering grapes. The ball passed through his side, inflicting a
very serious though not a fatal wound, as it chanced not to strike any
vital part. The wounded man was carried home; and the rude surgery
which was practised upon him was to insert a silk handkerchief with a
ramrod in at the bullet-hole, and draw it through his body. He
recovered from the wound.
Such a man as John Crockett forms no local attachments, and never
remains long in one place. Probably some one came to his region and
offered him a few dollars for his improvements. He abandoned his cabin,
with its growing neighborhood, and packing his few household goods upon
one or two horses, pushed back fifty miles farther southwest, into the
trackless wilderness. Here he found, about ten miles above the present
site of Greenville, a fertile and beautiful region. Upon the banks of a
little brook, which furnished him with an abundant supply of pure
water, he reared another shanty, and took possession of another four
hundred acres of forest land. Some of his boys were now old enough to
furnish efficient help in the field and in the chase.
How long John Crockett remained here we know not. Neither do we know
what induced him to make another move. But we soon find him pushing
still farther back into the wilderness, with his hapless family of sons
and daughters, dooming them, in all their ignorance, to the society
only of bears and wolves. He now established himself upon a
considerable stream, unknown to geography, called Cue Creek.
David Crockett was now about eight years old. During these years
emigration had been rapidly flowing from the Atlantic States into this
vast and beautiful valley south of the Ohio. With the increasing
emigration came an increasing demand for the comforts of civilization.
Framed houses began to rise here and there, and lumber, in its various
forms, was needed.
John Crockett, with another man by the name of Thomas Galbraith,
undertook to build a mill upon Cove Creek. They had nearly completed
it, having expended all their slender means in its construction, when
there came a terrible freshet, and all their works were swept away. The
flood even inundated Crockett's cabin, and the family was compelled to
fly to a neighboring eminence for safety.
Disheartened by this calamity, John Crockett made another move.
Knoxville, on the Holston River, had by this time become quite a
thriving little settlement of log huts. The main route of emigration
was across the mountains to Abingdon, in Southwestern Virginia, and
then by an extremely rough forest-road across the country to the valley
of the Holston, and down that valley to Knoxville. This route was
mainly traversed by pack-horses and emigrants on foot. But stout
wagons, with great labor, could be driven through.
John Crockett moved still westward to this Holston valley, where he
reared a pretty large log house on this forest road; and opened what he
called a tavern for the entertainment of teamsters and other emigrants.
It was indeed a rude resting-place. But in a fierce storm the exhausted
animals could find a partial shelter beneath a shed of logs, with corn
to eat; and the hardy pioneers could sleep on bear-skins, with their
feet perhaps soaked with rain, feeling the warmth of the cabin fire.
The rifle of John Crockett supplied his guests with the choicest
venison steaks, and his wife baked in the ashes the "journey cake,"
since called johnny cake, made of meal from corn pounded in a mortar or
ground in a hand-mill. The brilliant flame of the pitch-pine knot
illumined the cabin; and around the fire these hardy men often kept
wakeful until midnight, smoking their pipes, telling their stories, and
singing their songs.
This house stood alone in the forest. Often the silence of the night
was disturbed by the cry of the grizzly bear and the howling of wolves.
Here David remained four years, aiding his father in all the laborious
work of clearing the land and tending the cattle. There was of course
no school here, and the boy grew up in entire ignorance of all book
learning. But in these early years he often went into the woods with
his gun in pursuit of game, and, young as he was, acquired considerable
reputation as a marksman.
One day, a Dutchman by the name of Jacob Siler came to the cabin,
driving a large herd of cattle. He had gathered them farther west, from
the luxuriant pastures in the vicinity of Knoxville, where cattle
multiplied with marvellous rapidity, and was taking them back to market
in Virginia. The drover found some difficulty in managing so many half
wild cattle, as he pressed them forward through the wilderness, and he
bargained with John Crockett to let his son David, who, as we have
said, was then twelve years of age, go with him as his hired help.
Whatever wages he gave was paid to the father.
The boy was to go on foot with this Dutchman four hundred miles,
driving the cattle. This transaction shows very clearly the hard and
unfeeling character of David's parents. When he reached the end of his
journey, so many weary leagues from home, the only way by which he
could return was to attach himself to some emigrant party or some
company of teamsters, and walk back, paying for such food as he might
consume, by the assistance he could render on the way. There are few
parents who could thus have treated a child of twelve years.
The little fellow, whose affections had never been more cultivated than
those of the whelp of the wolf or the cub of the bear, still left home,
as he tells us, with a heavy heart. The Dutchman was an entire stranger
to him, and he knew not what treatment he was to expect at his hands.
He had already experienced enough of forest travel to know its
hardships. A journey of four hundred miles seemed to him like going to
the uttermost parts of the earth. As the pioneers had smoked their
pipes at his father's cabin fire, he had heard many appalling accounts
of bloody conflicts with the Indians, of massacres, scalpings,
tortures, and captivity.
David's father had taught him, very sternly, one lesson, and that was
implicit and prompt obedience to his demands. The boy knew full well
that it would be of no avail for him to make any remonstrance.
Silently, and trying to conceal his tears, he set out on the perilous
enterprise. The cattle could be driven but about fifteen or twenty
miles a day. Between twenty and thirty days were occupied in the
toilsome and perilous journey. The route led them often through marshy
ground, where the mire was trampled knee-deep. All the streams had to
be forded. At times, swollen by the rains, they were very deep. There
were frequent days of storm, when, through the long hours, the poor boy
trudged onward, drenched with rain and shivering with cold. Their fare
was most meagre, consisting almost entirely of such game as they
chanced to shoot, which they roasted on forked sticks before the fire.
When night came, often dark and stormy, the cattle were generally too
much fatigued by their long tramp to stray away. Some instinct also
induced them to cluster together. A rude shanty was thrown up. Often
everything was so soaked with rain that it was impossible to build a
fire. The poor boy, weary and supperless, spattered with mud and
drenched with rain, threw himself upon the wet ground for that blessed
sleep in which the weary forget their woes. Happy was he if he could
induce one of the shaggy dogs to lie down by his side, that he might
hug the faithful animal in his arms, and thus obtain a little warmth.
Great was the luxury when, at the close of a toilsome day, a few pieces
of bark could be so piled as to protect from wind and rain, and a
roaring fire could blaze and crackle before the little camp. Then the
appetite which hunger gives would enable him to feast upon the tender
cuts of venison broiled upon the coals, with more satisfaction than the
gourmand takes in the choicest viands of the restaurant. Having feasted
to satiety, he would stretch himself upon the ground, with his feet to
the fire, and soon be lost to all earth's cares, in sweet oblivion.
The journey was safely accomplished. The Dutchman had a father-in-law,
by the name of Hartley, who lived in Virginia, having reared his cabin
within about three miles of the Natural Bridge. Here the boy's contract
came to an end. It would seem that the Dutchman was a good sort of man,
as the world goes, and that he treated the boy kindly. He was so well
pleased with David's energy and fidelity, that he was inclined to
retain him in his service. Seeing the boy's anxiety to return home, he
was disposed to throw around him invisible chains, and to hold him a
captive. He thus threw every possible hindrance in the way of his
return, offered to hire him as his boy of all work, and made him a
present of five or six dollars, which perhaps he considered payment in
advance, which bound the boy to remain with him until he had worked it
out.
David soon perceived that his movements were watched, and that he was
not his own master to go or stay as he pleased. This increased his
restlessness. Four or five weeks thus passed away, when, one morning,
three wagons laden with merchandise came along, bound to Knoxville.
They were driven by an old man by the name of Dugan, and his two
stalwart sons. They had traversed the road before, and David had seen
the old man at his father's tavern. Secretly the shrewd boy revealed to
him his situation, and his desire to get back to his home. The father
and sons conferred together upon the subject. They were moved with
sympathy for the boy, and, after due deliberation, told him that they
should stop for the night about seven miles from that place, and should
set out again on their journey with the earliest light of the morning;
and that if he could get to them before daylight, he might follow their
wagons.
It was Sunday morning, and it so happened that the Dutchman and the
family had gone away on a visit. David collected his clothes and the
little money he had, and hid them in a bundle under his bed. A very
small bundle held them all. The family returned, and, suspecting
nothing, all retired to sleep.
David had naturally a very affectionate heart. He never had been from
home before. His lonely situation roused all the slumbering emotions of
his childhood. In describing this event, he writes:
"I went to bed early that night, but sleep seemed to be a stranger to
me. For though I was a wild boy, yet I dearly loved my father and
mother; and their images appeared to be so deeply fixed in my mind that
I could not sleep for thinking of them. And then the fear that when I
should attempt to go out I should be discovered and called to a halt,
filled me with anxiety."
A little after midnight, when the family were in profoundest sleep,
David cautiously rose, and taking his little bundle, crept out doors.
To his disappointment he found that it was snowing fast, eight inches
having already fallen; and the wintry gale moaned dismally through the
treetops. It was a dark, moonless night. The cabin was in the fields,
half a mile from the road along which the wagons had passed. This boy
of twelve years, alone in the darkness, was to breast the gale and wade
through the snow, amid forest glooms, a distance of seven miles, before
he could reach the appointed rendezvous.
For a moment his heart sank within him. Then recovering his resolution,
he pushed out boldly into the storm. For three hours he toiled along,
the snow rapidly increasing in depth until it reached up to his knees.
Just before the dawn of the morning he reached the wagons. The men were
up, harnessing their teams. The Dunns were astounded at the appearance
of the little boy amid the darkness and the tempest. They took him into
the house, warmed him by the fire, and gave him a good breakfast,
speaking to him words of sympathy and encouragement. The affectionate
heart of David was deeply moved by this tenderness, to which he was
quite unaccustomed.
And then, though exhausted by the toil of a three hours' wading through
the drifts, he commenced, in the midst of a mountain storm, a long
day's journey upon foot. It was as much as the horses could do to drag
the heavily laden wagons over the encumbered road. However weary, he
could not ride. However exhausted, the wagons could not wait for him;
neither was there any place in the smothering snow for rest.
Day after day they toiled along, in the endurance of hardships now with
difficulty comprehended. Sometimes they were gladdened with sunny skies
and smooth paths. Again the clouds would gather, and the rain, the
sleet, and the snow would envelop them in glooms truly dismal. Under
these circumstances the progress of the wagons was very slow. David was
impatient. As he watched the sluggish turns of the wheels, he thought
that he could travel very much faster if he should push forward alone,
leaving the wagons behind him.
At length he became so impatient, thoughts of home having obtained
entire possession of his mind, that he informed Mr. Dunn of his
intention to press forward as fast as he could. His elder companions
deemed it very imprudent for such a mere child, thus alone, to attempt
to traverse the wilderness, and they said all they could to dissuade
him, but in vain. He therefore, early the next morning, bade them
farewell, and with light footsteps and a light heart tripped forward,
leaving them behind, and accomplishing nearly as much in one day as the
wagons could in two. We are not furnished with any of the details of
this wonderful journey of a solitary child through a wilderness of one
or two hundred miles. We know not how he slept at night, or how he
obtained food by day. He informs us that he was at length overtaken by
a drover, who had been to Virginia with a herd of cattle, and was
returning to Knoxville riding one horse and leading another.
The man was amazed in meeting a mere child in such lonely wilds, and
upon hearing his story, his kind heart was touched. David was a frail
little fellow, whose weight would be no burden for a horse, and the
good man directed him to mount the animal which he led. The boy had
begun to be very tired. He was just approaching a turbid stream, whose
icy waters, reaching almost to his neck, he would have had to wade but
for this Providential assistance.
Travellers in the wilderness seldom trot their horses. On such a
journey, an animal who naturally walks fast is of much more value than
one which has attained high speed upon the race-course. Thus pleasantly
mounted, David and his kind protector rode along together until they
came within about fifteen miles of John Crockett's tavern, where their
roads diverged. Here David dismounted, and bidding adieu to his
benefactor, almost ran the remaining distance, reaching home that
evening.
"The name of this kind gentleman," he writes, "I have forgotten; for it
deserves a high place in my little book. A remembrance of his kindness
to a little straggling boy has, however, a resting-place in my heart,
and there it will remain as long as I live."
It was the spring of the year when David reached his father's cabin. He
spent a part of the summer there. The picture which David gives of his
home is revolting in the extreme. John Crockett, the tavern-keeper, had
become intemperate, and he was profane and brutal. But his son, never
having seen any home much better, does not seem to have been aware that
there were any different abodes upon earth. Of David's mother we know
nothing. She was probably a mere household drudge, crushed by an
unfeeling husband, without sufficient sensibilities to have been aware
of her degraded condition.
Several other cabins had risen in the vicinity of John Crockett's. A
man came along, by the name of Kitchen, who undertook to open a school
to teach the boys to read. David went to school four days, but found it
very difficult to master his letters. He was a wiry little fellow, very
athletic, and his nerves seemed made of steel. When roused by anger, he
was as fierce and reckless as a catamount. A boy, much larger than
himself, had offended him. David decided not to attack him near the
school-house, lest the master might separate them.
He therefore slipped out of school, just before it was dismissed, and
running along the road, hid in a thicket, near which his victim would
have to pass on his way home. As the boy came unsuspectingly along,
young Crockett, with the leap of a panther, sprang upon his back. With
tooth and nail he assailed him, biting, scratching, pounding, until the
boy cried for mercy.
The next morning, David was afraid to go to school, apprehending the
severe punishment he might get from the master. He therefore left home
as usual, but played truant, hiding himself in the woods all day. He
did the same the next morning, and so continued for several days. At
last the master sent word to John Crockett, inquiring why his son David
no longer came to school. The boy was called to an account, and the
whole affair came out.
John Crockett had been drinking. His eyes flashed fire. He cut a stout
hickory stick, and with oaths declared that he would give his boy an
"eternal sight" worse whipping than the master would give him, unless
he went directly back to school. As the drunken father approached
brandishing his stick, the boy ran, and in a direction opposite from
that of the school-house. The enraged father pursued, and the unnatural
race continued for nearly a mile. A slight turn in the road concealed
the boy for a moment from the view of his pursuer, and he plunged into
the forest and hid. The father, with staggering gait, rushed along, but
having lost sight of the boy, soon gave up the chase, and returned home.
This revolting spectacle, of such a father and such a son, over which
one would think that angels might weep, only excited the derision of
this strange boy. It was what he had been accustomed to all his life.
He describes it in ludicrous terms, with the slang phrases which were
ever dropping from his lips. David knew that a terrible whipping
awaited him should he go back to the cabin.
He therefore pushed on several miles, to the hut of a settler whom he
knew. He was, by this time, too much accustomed to the rough and tumble
of life to feel any anxiety about the future. Arriving at the cabin, it
so chanced that he found a man, by the name of Jesse Cheek, who was
just starting with a drove of cattle for Virginia. Very readily, David,
who had experience in that business, engaged to accompany him. An elder
brother also, either weary of his wretched home or anxious to see more
of the world, entered into the same service.
The incidents of this journey were essentially the same with those of
the preceding one, though the route led two hundred miles farther into
the heart of Virginia. The road they took passed through Abingdon,
Witheville, Lynchburg, Charlottesville, Orange Court House, to Front
Royal in Warren County. Though these frontier regions then,
seventy-five years ago, were in a very primitive condition, still young
Crockett caught glimpses of a somewhat higher civilization than he had
ever encountered before in his almost savage life.
Here the drove was sold, and David found himself with a few dollars in
his pocket. His brother decided to look for work in that region. David,
then thirteen years of age, hoping tremblingly that time enough had
elapsed to save him from a whipping, turned his thoughts homeward. A
brother of the drover was about to return on horseback. David decided
to accompany him, thinking that the man would permit him to ride a part
of the way.
Much to his disgust, the man preferred to ride himself. The horse was
his own. David had no claim to it whatever. He was therefore left to
trudge along on foot. Thus he journeyed for three days. He then made an
excuse for stopping a little while, leaving his companion to go on
alone. He was very careful not again to overtake him. The boy had then,
with four dollars in his pocket, a foot journey before him of between
three and four hundred miles. And this was to be taken through desolate
regions of morass and forest, where, not unfrequently, the lurking
Indian had tomahawked, or gangs of half-famished wolves had devoured
the passing traveller. He was also liable, at any time, to be caught by
night and storm, without any shelter.
As he was sauntering along slowly, that he might be sure and not
overtake his undesirable companion, he met a wagoner coming from
Greenville, in Tennessee, and bound for Gerardstown, Berkeley County,
in the extreme northerly part of Virginia. His route lay directly over
the road which David had traversed. The man's name was Adam Myers. He
was a jovial fellow, and at once won the heart of the vagrant boy.
David soon entered into a bargain with Myers, and turned back with him.
The state of mind in which the boy was may be inferred from the
following extract taken from his autobiography. I omit the profanity,
which was ever sprinkled through all his utterances:
"I often thought of home, and, indeed, wished bad enough to be there.
But when I thought of the school-house, and of Kitchen, my master, and
of the race with my father, and of the big hickory stick he carried,
and of the fierceness of the storm of wrath I had left him in, I was
afraid to venture back. I knew my father's nature so well, that I was
certain his anger would hang on to him like a turtle does to a
fisherman's toe. The promised whipping came slap down upon every
thought of home."
Travelling back with the wagon, after two days' journey, he met his
brother again, who had then decided to return himself to the parental
cabin in Tennessee. He pleaded hard with David to accompany him
reminding him of the love of his mother and his sisters. The boy,
though all unused to weeping, was moved to tears. But the thought of
the hickory stick, and of his father's brawny arm, decided the
question. With his friend Myers he pressed on, farther and farther from
home, to Gerardstown.
CHAPTER II.
Youthful Adventures.
David at Gerardstown.--Trip to Baltimore.--Anecdotes.--He ships for
London.--Disappointment.--Defrauded of his Wages.--Escapes.--New
Adventures.--Crossing the River.--Returns Home.--His Reception.--A Farm
Laborer.--Generosity to his Father.--Love Adventure.--The Wreck of his
Hopes.--His School Education.--Second Love Adventure.--Bitter
Disappointment.--Life in the Backwoods.--Third Love Adventure.
The wagoner whom David had accompanied to Gerardstown was disappointed
in his endeavors to find a load to take back to Tennessee. He therefore
took a load to Alexandria, on the Potomac. David decided to remain at
Gerardstown until Myers should return. He therefore engaged to work for
a man by the name of John Gray, for twenty-five cents a day. It was
light farm-work in which he was employed, and he was so faithful in the
performance of his duties that he pleased the farmer, who was an old
man, very much.
Myers continued for the winter in teaming backward and forward between
Gerardstown and Baltimore, while David found a comfortable home of easy
industry with the farmer. He was very careful in the expenditure of his
money, and in the spring found that he had saved enough from his small
wages to purchase him a suit of coarse but substantial clothes. He
then, wishing to see a little more of the world, decided to make a trip
with the wagoner to Baltimore.
David had then seven dollars in his pocket, the careful savings of the
labors of half a year. He deposited the treasure with the wagoner for
safe keeping. They started on their journey, with a wagon heavily laden
with barrels of flour. As they were approaching a small settlement
called Ellicott's Mills, David, a little ashamed to approach the houses
in the ragged and mud-bespattered clothes which he wore on the way,
crept into the wagon to put on his better garments.
While there in the midst of the flour barrels piled up all around him,
the horses took fright at some strange sight which they encountered,
and in a terrible scare rushed down a steep hill, turned a sharp
corner, broke the tongue of the wagon and both of the axle-trees, and
whirled the heavy barrels about in every direction. The escape of David
from very serious injuries seemed almost miraculous. But our little
barbarian leaped from the ruins unscathed. It does not appear that he
had ever cherished any conception whatever of an overruling Providence.
Probably, a religious thought had never entered his mind. A colt
running by the side of the horses could not have been more insensible
to every idea of death, and responsibility at God's bar, than was David
Crockett. And he can be hardly blamed for this. The savages had some
idea of the Great Spirit and of a future world. David was as
uninstructed in those thoughts as are the wolves and the bears. Many
years afterward, in writing of this occurrence, he says, with
characteristic flippancy, interlarded with coarse phrases:
"This proved to me, if a fellow is born to be hung he will never be
drowned; and further, that if he is born for a seat in Congress, even
flour barrels can't make a mash of him. I didn't know how soon I should
be knocked into a cocked hat, and get my walking-papers for another
country."
The wagon was quite demolished by the disaster. Another was obtained,
the flour reloaded, and they proceeded to Baltimore, dragging the wreck
behind them, to be repaired there. Here young Crockett was amazed at
the aspect of civilization which was opened before him. He wandered
along the wharves gazing bewildered upon the majestic ships, with their
towering masts, cordage, and sails, which he saw floating there He had
never conceived of such fabrics before. The mansions, the churches, the
long lines of brick stores excited his amazement. It seemed to him that
he had been suddenly introduced into a sort of fairy-land. All thoughts
of home now vanished from his mind. The great world was expanding
before him, and the curiosity of his intensely active mind was roused
to explore more of its wonders.
One morning he ventured on board one of the ships at a wharf, and was
curiously and cautiously peering about, when the captain caught sight
of him. It so happened that he was in need of a sailor-boy, and being
pleased with the appearance of the lad, asked David if he would not
like to enter into his service to take a voyage to London. The boy had
no more idea of where London was, or what it was, than of a place in
the moon. But eagerly he responded, "Yes," for he cared little where he
went or what became of him, he was so glad of an opportunity to see
more of the wonders of this unknown world.
The captain made a few inquiries respecting his friends, his home, and
his past modes of life, and then engaged him for the cruise. David, in
a state of high, joyous excitement, hurried back to the wagoner, to get
his seven dollars of money and some clothes he had left with him. But
Myers put a very prompt veto upon the lad's procedure, assuming that he
was the boy's master, he declared that he should not go to sea. He
refused to let him have either his clothes or his money, asserting that
it was his duty to take him back to his parents in Tennessee. David
would gladly have fled from him, and embarked without money and without
clothes; but the wagoner watched him so closely that escape was
impossible.
David was greatly down-hearted at this disappointment, and watched
eagerly for an opportunity to obtain deliverance from his bondage. But
Myers was a burly teamster who swung a very heavy wagon-whip,
threatening the boy with a heavy punishment if he should make any
attempt to run away.
After a few days, Myers loaded his team for Tennessee, and with his
reluctant boy set out on his long journey. David was exceedingly
restless. He now hated the man who was so tyranically domineering over
him. He had no desire to return to his home, and he dreaded the hickory
stick with which he feared his brutal father would assail him. One dark
night, an hour or two before the morning, David carefully took his
little bundle of clothes, and creeping noiselessly from the cabin,
rushed forward as rapidly as his nimble feet could carry him. He soon
felt quite easy in reference to his escape. He knew that the wagoner
slept soundly, and that two hours at least must elapse before he would
open his eyes. He then would not know with certainty in what direction
the boy had fled. He could not safely leave his horses and wagon alone
in the wilderness, to pursue him; and even should he unharness one of
the horses and gallop forward in search of the fugitive, David, by
keeping a vigilant watch, would see him in the distance and could
easily plunge into the thickets of the forest, and thus elude pursuit.
He had run along five or six miles, when just as the sun was rising he
overtook another wagon. He had already begun to feel very lonely and
disconsolate. He had naturally an affectionate heart and a strong mind;
traits of character which gleamed through all the dark clouds that
obscured his life. He was alone in the wilderness, without a penny; and
he knew not what to do, or which way to turn. The moment he caught
sight of the teamster his heart yearned for sympathy. Tears moistened
his eyes, and hastening to the stranger, the friendless boy of but
thirteen years frankly told his whole story. The wagoner was a rough,
profane, burly man, of generous feelings. There was an air of sincerity
in the boy, which convinced him of the entire truth of his statements.
His indignation was aroused, and he gave expression to that indignation
in unmeasured terms. Cracking his whip in his anger, he declared that
Myers was a scoundrel, thus to rob a friendless boy, and that he would
lash the money out of him.
This man, whose name also chanced to be Myers, was of the tiger breed,
fearing nothing, ever ready for a fight, and almost invariably coming
off conqueror. In his generous rage he halted his team, grasped his
wagon-whip, and, accompanied by the trembling boy, turned back,
breathing vengeance. David was much alarmed, and told his protector
that he was afraid to meet the wagoner, who had so often threatened him
with his whip. But his new friend said, "Have no fear. The man shall
give you back your money, or I will thrash it out of him."
They had proceeded but about two miles when they met the approaching
team of Adam Myers. Henry Myers, David's new friend, leading him by the
hand, advanced menacingly upon the other teamster, and greeted him with
the words:
"You accursed scoundrel, what do you mean by robbing this friendless
boy of his money?" Adam Myers confessed that he had received seven
dollars of the boy's money. He said, however, that he had no money with
him; that he had invested all he had in articles in his wagon, and that
he intended to repay the boy as soon as they got back to Tennessee.
This settled the question, and David returned with Henry Myers to his
wagon, and accompanied him for several days on his slow and toilsome
journey westward.
The impatient boy, as once before, soon got weary of the loitering pace
of the heavily laden team, and concluded to leave his friend and press
forward more rapidly alone. It chanced, one evening, that several
wagons met, and the teamsters encamped for the night together. Henry
Myers told them the story of the friendless boy, and that he was now
about to set out alone for the long journey, most of it through an
entire wilderness, and through a land of strangers wherever there might
chance to be a few scattered cabins. They took up a collection for
David, and presented him with three dollars.
The little fellow pressed along, about one hundred and twenty-five
miles, down the valley between the Alleghany and the Blue ridges, until
he reached Montgomery Court House. The region then, nearly three
quarters of a century ago, presented only here and there a spot where
the light of civilization had entered. Occasionally the log cabin of
some poor emigrant was found in the vast expanse. David, too proud to
beg, when he had any money with which to pay, found his purse empty
when he had accomplished this small portion of his journey.
In this emergence, he hired out to work for a man a month for five
dollars, which was at the rate of about one shilling a day. Faithfully
he fulfilled his contract, and then, rather dreading to return home,
entered into an engagement with a hatter, Elijah Griffith, to work in
his shop for four years. Here he worked diligently eighteen months
without receiving any pay. His employer then failed, broke up, and left
the country. Again this poor boy, thus the sport of fortune, found
himself without a penny, with but few clothes, and those much worn.
But it was not his nature to lay anything very deeply to heart. He
laughed at misfortune, and pressed on singing and whistling through all
storms. He had a stout pair of hands, good nature, and adaptation to
any kind of work. There was no danger of his starving; and exposures,
which many would deem hardships, were no hardships for him. Undismayed
he ran here and there, catching at such employment as he could find,
until he had supplied himself with some comfortable clothing, and had a
few dollars of ready money in his purse. Again he set out alone and on
foot for his far-distant home. He had been absent over two years, and
was new fifteen years of age.
He trudged along, day after day, through rain and sunshine, until he
reached a broad stream called New River. It was wintry weather. The
stream was swollen by recent rains, and a gale then blowing was
ploughing the surface into angry waves. Teams forded the stream many
miles above. There was a log hut here, and the owner had a frail canoe
in which he could paddle an occasional traveller across the river. But
nothing would induce him to risk his life in an attempt to cross in
such a storm.
The impetuous boy, in his ignorance of the effect of wind upon waves,
resolved to attempt to cross, at every hazard, and notwithstanding all
remonstrances. He obtained a leaky canoe, which was half stranded upon
the shore, and pushed out on his perilous voyage. He tied his little
bundle of clothes to the bows of the boat, that they might not be
washed or blown away, and soon found himself exposed to the full force
of the wind, and tossed by billows such as he had never dreamed of
before. He was greatly frightened, and would have given all he had in
the world, to have been safely back again upon the shore. But he was
sure to be swamped if he should attempt to turn the boat broadside to
the waves in such a gale. The only possible salvation for him was to
cut the approaching billows with the bows of the boat. Thus he might
possibly ride over them, though at the imminent peril, every moment, of
shipping a sea which would engulf him and his frail boat in a watery
grave.
In this way he reached the shore, two miles above the proper
landing-place. The canoe was then half full of water. He was drenched
with spray, which was frozen into almost a coat of mail upon his
garments. Shivering with cold, he had to walk three miles through the
forest before he found a cabin at whose fire he could warm and dry
himself. Without any unnecessary delay he pushed on until he crossed
the extreme western frontier line of Virginia, and entered Sullivan
County, Tennessee.
An able-bodied young man like David Crockett, strong, athletic, willing
to work, and knowing how to turn his hand to anything, could, in the
humblest cabin, find employment which would provide him with board and
lodging. He was in no danger of starving. There was, at that time, but
one main path of travel from the East into the regions of the boundless
West.
As David was pressing along this path he came to a little hamlet of log
huts, where he found the brother whom he had left when he started from
home eighteen months before with the drove of cattle. He remained with
him for two or three weeks, probably paying his expenses by farm labor
and hunting. Again he set out for home. The evening twilight was
darkening into night when he caught sight of his father's humble cabin.
Several wagons were standing around, showing that there must be
considerable company in the house.
With not a little embarrassment, he ventured in. It was rather dark.
His mother and sisters were preparing supper at the immense fireside.
Quite a group of teamsters were scattered around the room, smoking
their pipes, and telling their marvellous stories. David, during his
absence of two years, had grown, and changed considerably in personal
appearance. None of the family recognized him. They generally supposed,
as he had been absent so long, that he was dead.
David inquired if he could remain all night. Being answered in the
affirmative, he took a seat in a corner and remained perfectly silent,
gazing upon the familiar scene, and watching the movements of his
father, mother, and sisters. At length supper was ready, and all took
seats at the table. As David came more into the light, one of his
sisters, observing him, was struck with his resemblance to her lost
brother. Fixing her eyes upon him, she, in a moment, rushed forward and
threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming, "Here is my brother David."
Quite a scene ensued. The returning prodigal was received with as much
affection as could be expected in a family with such uncultivated
hearts and such unrefined habits as were found in the cabin of John
Crockett. Even the stern old man forgot his hickory switch, and David,
much to his relief, found that he should escape the long-dreaded
whipping. Many years after this, when David Crockett, to his own
surprise, and that of the whole nation, found himself elevated to the
position of one of our national legislators, he wrote:
"But it will be a source of astonishment to many, who reflect that I am
now a member of the American Congress, the most enlightened body of men
in the world, that, at so advanced an age, the age of fifteen, I did
not know the first letter in the book."
By the laws and customs of our land, David was bound to obey his father
and work for him until he was twenty-one years of age. Until that time,
whatever wages he might earn belonged to his father. It is often an act
of great generosity for a hard-working farmer to release a stout lad of
eighteen or nineteen from this obligation, and "to give him," as it is
phrased, "his time."
John Crockett owed a neighbor, Abraham Wilson, thirty-six dollars. He
told David that if he would work for Mr. Wilson until his wages paid
that sum, he would then release him from all his obligations to his
father, and his son might go free. It was a shrewd bargain for the old
man, for he had already learned that David was abundantly capable of
taking care of himself, and that he would come and go when and where he
pleased.
The boy, weary of his wanderings, consented to the arrangement, and
engaged to work for Mr. Wilson for six months, in payment for which,
the note was to be delivered up to his father. It was characteristic of
David that whatever he undertook he engaged in with all his might. He
was a rude, coarse boy. It was scarcely possible, with his past
training, that he should be otherwise. But he was very faithful in
fulfilling his obligations. Though his sense of right and wrong was
very obtuse, he was still disposed to do the right so far as his
uncultivated conscience revealed it to him.
For six months, David worked for Mr. Wilson with the utmost fidelity
and zeal. He then received the note, presented it to his father, and,
before he was sixteen years of age, stood up proudly his own man. His
father had no longer the right to whip him. His father had no longer
the right to call upon him for any service without paying him for it.
And on the other hand, he could no longer look to his father for food
or clothing. This thought gave him no trouble. He had already taken
care of himself for two years, and he felt no more solicitude in regard
to the future than did the buffalo's calf or the wolf's whelp.
Wilson was a bad man, dissipated and unprincipled. But he had found
David to be so valuable a laborer that he offered him high wages if he
would remain and work for him. It shows a latent, underlying principle
of goodness in David, that he should have refused the offer. He writes:
"The reason was, it was a place where a heap of bad company met to
drink and gamble; and I wanted to get away from them, for I know'd very
well, if I staid there, I should get a bad name, as nobody could be
respectable that would live there."
About this time a Quaker, somewhat advanced in years, a good, honest
man, by the name of John Kennedy, emigrated from North Carolina, and
selecting his four hundred acres of land about fifteen miles from John
Crockett's, reared a log hut and commenced a clearing. In some
transaction with Crockett he took his neighbor's note for forty
dollars. He chanced to see David, a stout lad of prepossessing
appearance, and proposed that he should work for him for two shillings
a day taking him one week upon trial. At the close of the week the
Quaker expressed himself as highly satisfied with his work, and offered
to pay him with his father's note of forty dollars for six months'
labor on his farm.
David knew full well how ready his father was to give his note, and how
slow he was to pay it. He was fully aware that the note was not worth,
to him, the paper upon which it was written. But he reflected that the
note was an obligation upon his father, that he was very poor, and his
lot in life was hard. It certainly indicated much innate nobility of
nature that this boy, under these circumstances, should have accepted
the offer of the Quaker. But David did this. For six months he labored
assiduously, without the slightest hope of reward, excepting that he
would thus relieve his father, whom he had no great cause either to
respect or love, from the embarrassment of the debt.
For a whole half-year David toiled upon the farm of the Quaker, never
once during that time visiting his home. At the end of the term he
received his pay for those long months of labor, in a little piece of
rumpled paper, upon which his father had probably made his mark. It was
Saturday evening. The next morning he borrowed a horse of his employer
and set out for a visit home. He was kindly welcomed. His father knew
nothing of the agreement which his son had made with Mr. Kennedy. As
the family were talking together around the cabin fire, David drew the
note from his pocket and presented it to his father. The old man seemed
much troubled. He supposed Mr. Kennedy had sent it for collection. As
usual, he began to make excuses. He said that he was very sorry that he
could not pay it, that he had met with many misfortunes, that he had no
money, and that he did not know what to do.
David then told his father that he did not hand him the bill for
collection, but that it was a present from him--that he had paid it in
full. It is easy for old and broken-down men to weep. John Crockett
seemed much affected by this generosity of his son, and David says "he
shed a heap of tears." He, however, avowed his inability to pay
anything whatever, upon the note.
David had now worked a year without getting any money for himself. His
clothes were worn out, and altogether he was in a very dilapidated
condition. He went back to the Quaker's, and again engaged in his
service, desiring to earn some money to purchase clothes. Two months
thus passed away. Every ardent, impetuous boy must have a love
adventure. David had his. A very pretty young Quakeress, of about
David's age, came from North Carolina to visit Mr. Kennedy, who was her
uncle. David fell desperately in love with her. We cannot better
describe this adventure than in the unpolished diction of this
illiterate boy. If one would understand this extraordinary character,
it is necessary thus to catch such glimpses as we can of his inner
life. Let this necessity atone for the unpleasant rudeness of speech.
Be it remembered that this reminiscence was written after David
Crockett was a member of Congress.
"I soon found myself head over heels in love with this girl. I thought
that if all the hills about there were pure chink, and all belonged to
me, I would give them if I could just talk to her as I wanted to. But I
was afraid to begin; for when I would think of saying anything to her,
my heart would begin to flutter like a duck in a puddle. And if I tried
to outdo it and speak, it would get right smack up in my throat, and
choke me like a cold potato. It bore on my mind in this way, till at
last I concluded I must die if I didn't broach the subject. So I
determined to begin and hang on a-trying to speak, till my heart would
get out of my throat one way or t'other.
"And so one day at it I went, and after several trials I could say a
little. I told her how I loved her; that she was the darling object of
my soul and body, and I must have her, or else I should pine down to
nothing, and just die away with consumption.
"I found my talk was not disagreeable to her. But she was an honest
girl, and didn't want to deceive nobody. She told me she was engaged to
her cousin, a son of the old Quaker. This news was worse to me than
war, pestilence, or famine. But still I know'd I could not help myself.
I saw quick enough my cake was dough; and I tried to cool off as fast
as possible. But I had hardly safety pipes enough, as my love was so
hot as mighty nigh to burst my boilers. But I didn't press my claims
any more, seeing there was no chance to do anything."
David's grief was very sincere, and continued as long as is usually the
case with disappointed lovers.
David soon began to cherish some slight idea of the deficiency in his
education. He had never been to school but four days; and in that time
he had learned absolutely nothing. A young man, a Quaker, had opened a
school about a mile and a half from Mr. Kennedy's. David made an
arrangement with his employer by which he was to go to school four days
in the week, and work the other two days for his board. He continued in
this way for six months. But it was very evident that David was not
born for a scholar. At the end of that time he could read a little in
the first primer. With difficulty he could make certain hieroglyphics
which looked like his name. He could also perform simple sums in
addition, subtraction, and multiplication. The mysteries of division he
never surmounted.
This was the extent of his education. He left school, and in the
laborious life upon which he entered, never after improved any
opportunity for mental culture. The disappointment which David had
encountered in his love affair, only made him more eager to seek a new
object upon which he might fix his affections. Not far from Mr.
Kennedy's there was the cabin of a settler, where there were two or
three girls. David had occasionally met them. Boy as he was, for he was
not yet eighteen, he suddenly and impetuously set out to see if he
could not pick, from them, one for a wife.
Without delay he made his choice, and made his offer, and was as
promptly accepted as a lover. Though they were both very young, and
neither of them had a dollar, still as those considerations would not
have influenced David in the slightest degree, we know not why they
where not immediately married. Several months of very desperate and
satisfactory courtship passed away, when the time came for the nuptials
of the little Quaker girl, which ceremony was to take place at the
cabin of her uncle David and his "girl" were invited to the wedding.
The scene only inflamed the desires of David to hasten his
marriage-day. He was very importunate in pressing his claims. She
seemed quite reluctant to fix the day, but at last consented; and says
David, "I thought if that day come, I should be the happiest man in the
created world, or in the moon, or anywhere else."
In the mean time David had become very fond of his rifle, and had
raised enough money to buy him one. He was still living with the
Quaker. Game was abundant, and the young hunter often brought in
valuable supplies of animal food. There were frequent shooting-matches
in that region. David, proud of his skill, was fond of attending them.
But his Quaker employer considered them a species of gambling, which
drew together all the idlers and vagrants of the region, and he could
not approve of them.
There was another boy living at that time with the Quaker. They
practised all sorts of deceptions to steal away to the shooting-matches
under pretence that they were engaged in other things. This boy was
quite in love with a sister of David's intended wife. The staid member
of the Society of Friends did not approve of the rude courting frolics
of those times, which frequently occupied nearly the whole night.
The two boys slept in a garret, in what was called the gable end of the
house. There was a small window in their rough apartment. One Sunday,
when the Quaker and his wife were absent attending a meeting, the boys
cut a long pole, and leaned it up against the side of the house, as
high as the window, but so that it would not attract any attention.
They were as nimble as catamounts, and could run up and down the pole
without the slightest difficulty. They would go to bed at the usual
early hour. As soon as all were quiet, they would creep from the house,
dressed in their best apparel, and taking the two farm-horses, would
mount their backs and ride, as fast as possible, ten miles through the
forest road to where the girls lived. They were generally expected.
After spending all the hours of the middle of the night in the varied
frolics of country courtship, they would again mount their horses and
gallop home, being especially careful to creep in at their window
before the dawn of day The course of true love seemed for once to be
running smoothly. Saturday came, and the next week, on Thursday, David
was to be married.
It so happened that there was to be a shooting match on Saturday, at
one of the cabins not far from the home of his intended bride. David
made some excuse as to the necessity of going home to prepare for his
wedding, and in the morning set out early, and directed his steps
straight to the shooting-match. Here he was very successful in his
shots, and won about five dollars. In great elation of spirits, and
fully convinced that he was one of the greatest and happiest men in the
world, he pressed on toward the home of his intended bride.
He had walked but a couple of miles, when he reached the cabin of the
girl's uncle. Considering the members of the family already as his
relatives, he stepped in, very patronizingly, to greet them. He doubted
not that they were very proud of the approaching alliance of their
niece with so distinguished a man as himself--a man who had actually
five dollars, in silver, in his pocket. Entering the cabin, he found a
sister of his betrothed there. Instead of greeting him with the
cordiality he expected, she seemed greatly embarrassed. David had
penetration enough to see that something was wrong. The reception she
gave him was not such as he thought a brother-in-law ought to receive.
He made more particular inquiries. The result we will give in David's
language.
"She then burst into tears, and told me that her sister was going to
deceive me; and that she was to be married to another man the next day.
This was as sudden to me as a clap of thunder of a bright sunshiny day.
It was the capstone of all the afflictions I had ever met with; and it
seemed to me that it was more than any human creature could endure. It
struck me perfectly speechless for some time, and made me feel so weak
that I thought I should sink down. I however recovered from the shock
after a little, and rose and started without any ceremony, or even
bidding anybody good-bye. The young woman followed me out to the gate,
and entreated me to go on to her father's, and said she would go with
me.
"She said the young man who was going to marry her sister had got his
license and asked for her. But she assured me that her father and
mother both preferred me to him; and that she had no doubt that if I
would go on I could break off the match. But I found that I could go no
farther. My heart was bruised, and my spirits were broken down. So I
bid her farewell, and turned my lonesome and miserable steps back again
homeward, concluding that I was only born for hardship, misery, and
disappointment. I now began to think that in making me it was entirely
forgotten to make my mate; that I was born odd, and should always
remain so, and that nobody would have me.
"But all these reflections did not satisfy my mind, for I had no peace,
day nor night, for several weeks. My appetite failed me, and I grew
daily worse and worse. They all thought I was sick; and so I was. And
it was the worst kind of sickness, a sickness of the heart, and all the
tender parts, produced by disappointed love."
For some time David continued in a state of great dejection, a lovelorn
swain of seventeen years. Thus disconsolate, he loved to roam the
forest alone, with his rifle as his only companion, brooding over his
sorrows. The gloom of the forest was congenial to him, and the
excitement of pursuing the game afforded some slight relief to his
agitated spirit. One day, when he had wandered far from home, he came
upon the cabin of a Dutchman with whom he had formed some previous
acquaintance. He had a daughter, who was exceedingly plain in her
personal appearance, but who had a very active mind, and was a bright,
talkative girl.
She had heard of David's misadventure, and rather unfeelingly rallied
him upon his loss. She however endeavored to comfort him by the
assurance that there were as good fish in the sea as had ever been
caught out of it. David did not believe in this doctrine at all, as
applied to his own case, He thought his loss utterly irretrievable. And
in his still high appreciation of himself, notwithstanding his deep
mortification, he thought that the lively Dutch girl was endeavoring to
catch him for her lover. In this, however, he soon found himself
mistaken.
She told him that there was to be a reaping frolic in their
neighborhood in a few days, and that if he would attend it, she would
show him one of the prettiest girls upon whom he ever fixed his eyes.
Difficult as he found it to shut out from his mind his lost love, upon
whom his thoughts were dwelling by day and by night, he very wisely
decided that his best remedy would be found in what Dr. Chalmers calls
"the expulsive power of a new affection;" that is, that he would try
and fall in love with some other girl as soon as possible. His own
language, in describing his feelings at that time, is certainly very
different from that which the philosopher or the modern novelist would
have used, but it is quite characteristic of the man. The Dutch maiden
assured him that the girl who had deceived him was not to be compared
in beauty with the one she would show to him. He writes:
"I didn't believe a word of all this, for I had thought that such a
piece of flesh and blood as she had never been manufactured, and never
would again. I agreed with her that the little varmint had treated me
so bad that I ought to forget her, and yet I couldn't do it. I
concluded that the best way to accomplish it was to cut out again, and
see if I could find any other that would answer me; and so I told the
Dutch girl that I would be at the reaping, and would bring as many as I
could with me."
David seems at this time to have abandoned all constant industry, and
to be loafing about with his rifle, thus supporting himself with the
game he took. He traversed the still but slightly broken forest in all
directions, carrying to many scattered farm-houses intelligence of the
approaching reaping frolic. He informed the good Quaker with whom he
had worked of his intention to be there. Mr. Kennedy endeavored to
dissuade him. He said that there would be much bad company there; that
there would be drinking and carousing, and that David had been so good
a boy that he should be very sorry to have him get a bad name.
The curiosity of the impetuous young man was, however, by this time,
too much aroused for any persuasions to hold him back. Shouldering his
rifle, he hastened to the reaping at the appointed day. Upon his
arrival at the place he found a large company already assembled. He
looked around for the pretty girl, but she was nowhere to be seen. She
chanced to be in a shed frolicking with some others of the young people.
But as David, with his rifle on his shoulder, sauntered around, an aged
Irish woman, full of nerve and volubility, caught sight of him. She was
the mother of the girl, and had been told of the object of David's
visit. He must have appeared very boyish, for he had not yet entered
his eighteenth year, and though very wiry and athletic, he was of
slender frame, and rather small in stature.
The Irish woman hastened to David; lavished upon him compliments
respecting his rosy cheeks, and assured him that she had exactly such a
sweet heart for him as he needed. She did not allow, David to have any
doubt that she would gladly welcome him as the husband of her daughter.
Pretty soon the young, fresh, blooming, mirthful girl came along; and
David fell in love with her at first sight. Not much formality of
introduction was necessary: each was looking for the other. Both of the
previous loves of the young man were forgotten in an instant. He
devoted himself with the utmost assiduity, to the little Irish girl. He
was soon dancing with her. After a very vigorous "double shuffle," as
they were seated side by side on a bench intensely talking, for David
Crockett was never at a loss for words, the mother came up, and, in her
wonderfully frank mode of match-making, jocosely addressed him as her
son-in-law.
Even David's imperturbable self-possession was disturbed by this
assailment. Still he was much pleased to find both mother and daughter
so favorably disposed toward him. The rustic frolicking continued
nearly all night. In the morning, David, in a very happy frame of mind,
returned to the Quaker's, and in anticipation of soon setting up
farming for himself, engaged to work for him for six months for a
low-priced horse.
CHAPTER III.
Marriage and Settlement.
Rustic Courtship.--The Rival Lover.--Romantic Incident.--The Purchase
of a Horse.--The Wedding.--Singular Ceremonies.--The Termagant.--Bridal
Days.--They commence Housekeeping.--The Bridal Mansion and
Outfit.--Family Possessions.--The Removal to Central Tennessee.--Mode
of Transportation.--The New Home and its Surroundings.--Busy
Idleness.--The Third Move.--The Massacre at Fort Mimms.
David took possession of his horse, and began to work very diligently
to pay for it. He felt that now he was a man of property. After the
lapse of a few weeks he mounted his horse and rode over to the
Irishman's cabin to see his girl, and to find out how she lived, and
what sort of people composed the family. Arriving at the log hut, he
found the father to be a silent, staid old man, and the mother as
voluble and nervous a little woman as ever lived. Much to his
disappointment, the girl was away. After an hour or two she returned,
having been absent at some meeting or merry-making, and, much to his
chagrin, she brought back with her a stout young fellow who was
evidently her lover.
The new-comer was not at all disposed to relinquish his claims in favor
of David Crockett. He stuck close to the maiden, and kept up such an
incessant chatter that David could scarcely edge in a word. In
characteristic figure of speech he says, "I began to think I was
barking up the wrong tree again. But I determined to stand up to my
rack, fodder or no fodder." He thought he was sure of the favor of her
parents, and he was not certain that the girl herself had not given him
sundry glances indicative of her preference. Dark night was now coming
on, and David had a rough road of fifteen miles to traverse through the
forest before he could reach home. He thought that if the Irishman's
daughter cherished any tender feelings toward him, she would be
reluctant to have him set out at that late hour on such a journey. He
therefore rose to take leave.
His stratagem proved successful. The girl immediately came, leaving her
other companion, and in earnest tones entreated him not to go that
evening. The lover was easily persuaded. His heart grew lighter and his
spirit bolder. She soon made it so manifest in what direction her
choice lay, that David was left entire master of the field. His
discomfited rival soon took his hat and withdrew, David thus was freed
from all his embarrassments.
It was Saturday night. He remained at the cabin until Monday morning,
making very diligent improvement of his time in the practice of all
those arts of rural courtship which instinct teaches. He then returned
home, not absolutely engaged, but with very sanguine hopes.
At that time, in that region, wolves were abundant and very
destructive. The neighbors, for quite a distance, combined for a great
wolf-hunt, which should explore the forest for many miles. By the
hunters thus scattering on the same day, the wolves would have no place
of retreat. If they fled before one hunter they would encounter
another. Young Crockett, naturally confident, plunged recklessly into
the forest, and wandered to and fro until, to his alarm, he found
himself bewildered and utterly lost. There were no signs of human
habitations near, and night was fast darkening around him.
Just as he was beginning to feel that he must look out for a night's
encampment, he saw in the distance, through the gigantic trees, a young
girl running at her utmost speed, or, as he expressed it in the
Crockett vernacular, "streaking it along through the woods like all
wrath." David gave chase, and soon overtook the terrified girl, whom he
found, to his surprise and delight, to be his own sweetheart, who had
also by some strange accident got lost.
Here was indeed a romantic and somewhat an embarrassing adventure. The
situation was, however, by no means so embarrassing as it would have
been to persons in a higher state of civilization. The cabin of the
emigrant often consisted of but one room, where parents and children
and the chance guest passed the night together. They could easily throw
up a camp. David with his gun could kindle a fire and get some game.
The girl could cook it. All their physical wants would thus be
supplied. They had no material inconveniences to dread in camping out
for a night. The delicacy of the situation would not be very keenly
felt by persons who were at but one remove above the native Indian.
The girl had gone out in the morning into the woods, to hunt up one of
her father's horses. She missed her way, became lost, and had been
wandering all day long farther and farther from home. Soon after the
two met they came across a path which they knew must lead to some
house. Following this, just after dark they came within sight of the
dim light of a cabin fire. They were kindly received by the inmates,
and, tired as they were, they both sat up all night. Upon inquiry they
found that David had wandered ten miles from his home, and the young
girl seven from hers. Their paths lay in different directions, but the
road was plain, and in the morning they separated, and without
difficulty reached their destination.
David was now anxious to get married immediately. It will be remembered
that he had bought a horse; but he had not paid for it. The only
property he had, except the coarse clothes upon his back, was a rifle.
All the land in that neighborhood was taken up. He did not even own an
axe with which to build him a log cabin. It would be necessary for him
to hire some deserted shanty, and borrow such articles as were
indispensable. Nothing could be done to any advantage without a horse.
To diminish the months which he had promised to work in payment for the
animal, he threw in his rifle.
After a few weeks of toil the horse was his. He mounted his steed,
deeming himself one of the richest men in the far West, and rode to see
his girl and fix upon his wedding-day. He confesses that as he rode
along, considering that he had been twice disappointed, he experienced
no inconsiderable trepidation as to the result of this third
matrimonial enterprise. He reached the cabin, and his worst fears were
realized.
The nervous, voluble, irritable little woman, who with all of a
termagant's energy governed both husband and family, had either become
dissatisfied with young Crockett's poverty, or had formed the plan of
some other more ambitious alliance for her daughter. She fell upon
David in a perfect tornado of vituperation, and ordered him out of the
house. She was "mighty wrathy," writes David, "and looked at me as
savage as a meat-axe."
David was naturally amiable, and in the depressing circumstances had no
heart to return railing for railing. He meekly reminded the infuriate
woman that she had called him "son-in-law" before he had attempted to
call her "mother-in-law," and that he certainly had been guilty of no
conduct which should expose him to such treatment. He soon saw, to his
great satisfaction, that the daughter remained faithful to him, and
that the meek father was as decidedly on his side as his timid nature
would permit him to be. Though David felt much insulted, he restrained
his temper, and, turning from the angry mother, told her daughter that
he would come the next Thursday on horseback, leading another horse for
her; and that then he would take her to a justice of the peace who
lived at the distance of but a few miles from them, where they would be
married. David writes of the mother:
"Her Irish was too high to do anything with her; so I quit trying. All
I cared for was to have her daughter on my side, which I know'd was the
case then. But how soon some other fellow might knock my nose out of
joint again, I couldn't tell. Her mother declared I shouldn't have her.
But I knowed I should, if somebody else didn't get her before Thursday."
The all-important wedding-day soon came David was resolved to crush out
all opposition and consummate the momentous affair with very
considerable splendor. He therefore rode to the cabin with a very
imposing retinue. Mounted proudly upon his own horse, and leading a
borrowed steed, with a blanket saddle, for his bride, and accompanied
by his elder brother and wife and a younger brother and sister, each on
horseback, he "cut out to her father's house to get her."
When this cavalcade of six horses had arrived within about two miles of
the Irishman's cabin, quite a large party was found assembled from the
log huts scattered several miles around. David, kind-hearted, generous,
obliging, was very popular with his neighbors. They had heard of the
approaching nuptials of the brave boy of but eighteen years, and of the
wrath of the brawling, ill-tempered mother. They anticipated a scene,
and wished to render David the support of their presence and sympathy.
This large party, some on foot and some on horseback, proceeded
together to the Irishman's cabin. The old man met them with smiles,
whiskey bottle in hand, ready to offer them all a drink. The wife,
however, was obdurate as ever. She stood at the cabin door, her eyes
flashing fire, and quite bewildered to decide in what way to attempt to
repel and drive off her foe.
She expected that the boy would come alone, and that, with her
all-potent tongue, she would so fiercely assail him and so frighten her
young girl as still to prevent the marriage. But here was quite an army
of the neighbors, from miles around, assembled. They were all evidently
the friends of David. Every eye was fixed upon her. Every ear was
listening to hear what she would say. Every tongue was itching to cry
out shame to her opposition, and to overwhelm her with reproaches. For
once the termagant found herself baffled, and at her wits' end.
The etiquette of courts and cabins are quite different. David paid no
attention to the mother, but riding up to the door of the log house,
leading the horse for his bride, he shouted to her to come out. The
girl had enjoyed no opportunity to pay any attention to her bridal
trousseau. But undoubtedly she had contrived to put on her best attire.
We do not know her age, but she was ever spoken of as a remarkably
pretty little girl, and was probably about seventeen years old.
David did not deem it necessary to dismount, but called upon his "girl"
to jump upon the horse he was leading. She did so. The mother was
powerless. It was a waterloo defeat. In another moment they would
disappear, riding away along the road, which wound through the gigantic
trees of the forest. In another hour they would be married. And then
they would forever be beyond the reach of the clamor of her voluble
tongue. She began to relent. The old man, accustomed to her wayward
humors, instinctively perceived it. Stepping up to David, and placing
his hand upon the neck of his horse, he said:
"I wish you would stay and be married here. My woman has too much
tongue. You oughtn't mind her."
Having thus, for a moment, arrested their departure, he stepped back to
the door, where his discomfited wife stood, and entreated her to
consent to their being married there. After much persuasion, common
sense triumphed over uncommon stubbornness. She consented. David and
his expectant bride were both on horseback, all ready to go. The woman
rather sullenly came forward and said:
"I am sorry for the words I have spoken. This girl is the only child I
have ever had to marry. I cannot bear to see her go off in this way. If
you'll come into the house and be married here, I will do the best I
can for you."
The good-natured David consented. They alighted from their horses, and
the bridal party entered the log hut. The room was not large, and the
uninvited guests thronged it and crowded around the door. The justice
of peace was sent for, and the nuptial knot was tied.
The wedding ceremonies on such occasions were sufficiently curious to
be worthy of record. They certainly were in very wide contrast with the
pomp and splendor of nuptials in the palatial mansions of the present
day. A large party usually met at some appointed place, some mounted
and others on foot, to escort the bridegroom to the house of the bride.
The horses were decorated with all sorts of caparisons, with ropes for
bridles, with blankets or furs for saddles. The men were dressed in
deerskin moccasins, leather breeches, leggins, coarse hunting-shirts of
all conceivable styles of material, and all homemade.
The women wore gowns of very coarse homespun and home-woven cloth,
composed of linen and wool, and called linsey-woolsey, very coarse
shoes, and sometimes with buckskin gloves of their own manufacture. If
any one chanced to have a ring or pretty buckle, it was a relic of
former times.
There were no carriages, for there were no roads. The narrow trail they
traversed in single file was generally a mere horse-path, often so
contracted in width that two horses could not pass along abreast. As
they marched along in straggling line, with shouts and jokes, and with
the interchange of many gallant acts of rustic love-making between the
coquettish maidens and the awkward swains, they encountered frequent
obstacles on the way. It was a part of the frolic for the young men to
throw obstructions in their path, and thus to create surprises. There
were brooks to be forded. Sometimes large trees were mischievously
felled across the trail. Grape-vines were tied across from tree to
tree, to trip up the passers-by or to sweep off their caps. It was a
great joke for half a dozen young men to play Indian. They would lie in
ambuscade, and suddenly, as the procession was passing, would raise the
war-whoop, discharge their guns, and raise shouts of laughter in view
of the real or feigned consternation thus excited.
The maidens would of course shriek. The frightened horses would spring
aside. The swains would gallantly rush to the rescue of their
sweethearts. When the party had arrived within about a mile of the
house where the marriage ceremony was to take place, two of the most
daring riders among the young men who had been previously selected for
the purpose, set out on horseback on a race for "the bottle." The
master of the house was expected to be standing at his door, with a jug
of whiskey in his hand. This was the prize which the victor in the race
was to seize and take back in triumph to his companions.
The start was announced by a general Indian yell. The more rough the
road--the more full of logs, stumps, rocks, precipitous hills, and
steep glens, the better. This afforded a better opportunity for the
display of intrepidity and horsemanship. It was a veritable
steeple-chase. The victor announced his success by one of those shrill,
savage yells, which would almost split the ears of the listener.
Grasping the bottle, he returned in triumph. On approaching the party,
he again gave forth the Indian war-whoop.
The bottle or jug was first presented to the bridegroom. He applied the
mouth of the bottle to his lips, and took a dram of raw whiskey. He
then handed it to his next of kin, and so the bottle passed through the
whole company. It is to be supposed that the young women did not burn
their throats with very copious drafts of the poisonous fire-water.
When they arrived at the house, the brief ceremony of marriage
immediately took place, and then came the marriage feast. It was a very
substantial repast of pork, poultry, wild turkeys, venison, and bear's
meat. There was usually the accompaniment of corn-bread, potatoes, and
other vegetables. Great hilarity prevailed on these occasions, with
wonderful freedom of manners, coarse jokes, and shouts of laughter.
The table was often a large slab of timber, hewn out with a broad-axe,
and supported by four stakes driven into auger-holes. The table
furniture consisted of a few pewter dishes, with wooden plates and
bowls. There were generally a few pewter spoons, much battered about
the edges, but most of the spoons were of horn, homemade. Crockery, so
easily broken, was almost unknown. Table knives were seldom seen. The
deficiency was made up by the hunting-knives which all the men carried
in sheaths attached to their hunting-shirts.
After dinner the dancing began. There was invariably some musical
genius present who could play the fiddle. The dances were what were
called three or four handed reels, or square sets and jigs. With all
sorts of grotesque attitudes, pantomime and athletic displays, the
revelry continued until late into the night, and often until the dawn
of the morning. As there could be no sleeping accommodations for so
large a company in the cabin of but one room, the guests made up for
sleep in merriment.
The bridal party stole away in the midst of the uproar, one after
another, up a ladder into the loft or garret above, which was floored
with loose boards made often of split timber. This furnished a very
rude sleeping apartment. As the revelry below continued, seats being
scarce, every young man offered his lap as a seat for the girls; and
the offer was always promptly accepted; Always, toward morning, some
one was sent up into the loft with a bottle of whiskey, to offer the
bridegroom and his bride a drink. The familiar name of the bottle was
"Black Betty." One of the witticisms ever prominent on the occasion
was, "Where is Black Betty? I want to kiss her sweet lips." At some
splendid weddings, where the larder was abundantly stored with game,
this feasting and dancing was continued for several days.
Such, in the main, was the wedding of David Crockett with the
Irishman's daughter. In the morning the company dispersed. David also
and his young bride left, during the day, for his father's cabin. As
the families of the nuptial party both belonged to the aristocracy of
the region, quite a splendid marriage reception was held at John
Crockett's. There were feasting and dancing; and "Black Betty received
many a cordial kiss. The bridegroom's heart was full of exultant joy.
David writes:
"Having gotten my wife, I thought I was completely made up, and needed
nothing more in the whole world."
He soon found his mistake, and awoke to the consciousness that he
needed everything, and had nothing. He had no furniture, no cabin, no
land, no money. And he had a wife to support. His only property
consisted of a cheap horse. He did not even own a rifle, an article at
that time so indispensable to the backwoodsman.
After spending a few days at David's father's, the bridegroom and bride
returned to the cabin of her father, the Irishman. Here they found that
a wonderful change had taken place in the mother's feelings and
conduct. She had concluded to submit good-naturedly to the inevitable.
Her "conversational powers" were wonderful. With the most marvellous
volubility of honeyed words she greeted them. She even consented to
have two cows given them, each with a calf. This was the dowry of the
bride--her only dowry. David, who had not expected anything, felt
exceedingly rich with this herd.
Near by there was a vacated log cabin with a few acres of land attached
to it. Our boy bridegroom and bride hired the cabin at a very small
rent. But then they had nothing whatever to put into it. They had not a
bed, or a table or a chair; no cooking utensils; not even a knife or a
fork. He had no farming tools; not a spade or a hoe. The whole capital
with which they commenced life consisted of the clothes they had on, a
farm-horse, two cows, and two calves.
In this emergence the good old Quaker, for whom David had worked, came
forward, and loaned him fifteen dollars. In that wilderness, food, that
is game and corn, was cheap. But as nearly everything else had to be
brought from beyond the mountains, all tools and furniture commanded
high prices. With the fifteen dollars, David and his little wife
repaired to a country store a few miles distant, to furnish their house
and farm. Under these circumstances, the china-closet of the bride must
have been a curiosity. David says, "With this fifteen dollars we fixed
up pretty grand, as we thought."
After a while, in some unexplained way, they succeeded in getting a
spinning-wheel. The little wife, says David, "knowed exactly how to use
it. She was also a good weaver. Being very industrious, she had, in
little or no time, a fine web of cloth ready to make up. She was good
at that too, and at almost anything else a woman could do."
Here this humble family remained for two years. They were both as
contented with their lot as other people are. They were about as well
off as most of their neighbors. Neither of them ever cherished a doubt
that they belonged to the aristocracy of the region. They did not want
for food or clothing, or shelter, or a warm fireside. They had their
merry-makings, their dances, and their shooting-matches. Let it be
remembered that this was three quarters of a century ago, far away in
the wilds of an almost untamed wilderness.
Two children were born in this log cabin. David began to feel the
responsibilities of a father who had children to provide for. Both of
the children were sons. Though David's family was increasing, there was
scarcely any increase of his fortune. He therefore decided that the
interests of his little household demanded that he should move still
farther back into the almost pathless wilderness, where the land was
not yet taken up, and where he could get a settler's title to four
hundred acres, simply by rearing a cabin and planting some corn.
He had one old horse, and a couple of colts, each two years old. The
colts were broken, as it was called, to the halter; that is, they could
be led, with light burdens upon their backs, but could not be ridden.
Mrs. Crockett mounted the old horse, with her babe in her arms, and the
little boy, two years old, sitting in front of her, astride the horse's
neck, and occasionally carried on his father's shoulders. Their few
articles of household goods were fastened upon the backs of the two
colts. David led one, and his kind-hearted father-in-law, who had very
generously offered to help him move, led the other. Thus this party set
out for a journey of two hundred and fifty miles, over unbridged
rivers, across rugged mountains, and through dense forests, whose
Indian trails had seldom if ever been trodden by the feet of white men.
This was about the year 1806. The whole population of the State then
amounted to but about one hundred thousand. They were generally widely
dispersed through the extensive regions of East Tennessee. But very few
emigrants had ventured across the broad and rugged cliffs of the
Cumberland Mountains into the rich and sunny plains of Western
Tennessee. But a few years before, terrible Indian wars desolated the
State. The powerful tribes of the Creeks and Cherokees had combined all
their energies for the utter extermination of the white men, seeking to
destroy all their hamlets and scattered cabins.
At a slow foot-pace the pioneers followed down the wild valley of the
Holston River, often with towering mountains rising upon each side of
them. If they chanced, at nightfall, to approach the lonely hut of a
settler, it was especial good fortune, as they thus found shelter
provided, and a fire built, and hospitable entertainment ready for
them. If, however, they were overtaken in the wilderness by darkness,
and even a menacing storm, it was a matter of but little moment, and
caused no anxiety. A shelter, of logs and bark, was soon thrown up,
with a crackling fire, illuminating the wilderness, blazing before it.
A couch, as soft as they had ever been accustomed to, could speedily be
spread from the pliant boughs of trees. Upon the pack-colts there were
warm blankets. And during the journey of the day they had enjoyed ample
opportunity to take such game as they might need for their supper and
their morning breakfast.
At length they reached the majestic flood of the Tennessee River, and
crossed it, we know not how. Then, directing their steps toward the
setting sun, they pressed on, league after league, and day after day,
in toilsome journey, over prairies and through forests and across
mountain-ridges, for a distance of nearly four hundred miles from their
starting-place, until they reached a small stream, called Mulberry
Creek which flows into the Elk River, in what is now Lincoln County.
At the mouth of Mulberry Creek the adventurous emigrant found his
promised land. It was indeed a beautiful region. The sun shines upon
none more so. The scenery, which, however, probably had but few
attractions for David Crockett's uncultivated eye, was charming. The
soil was fertile. The streams abounded with fish and waterfowl; and
prairie and forest were stocked with game. No family need suffer from
hunger here, if the husband had a rifle and knew how to use it. A few
hours' labor would rear a cabin which would shut out wind and rain as
effectually as the gorgeous walls of Windsor or Versailles.
No jets of gas or gleam of wax candles ever illumined an apartment more
brilliantly than the flashing blaze of the wood fire. And though the
refectories of the Palais Royal may furnish more scientific cookery
than the emigrant's hut, they cannot furnish fatter turkeys, or more
tender venison, or more delicious cuts from the buffalo and the bear
than are often found browning before the coals of the log cabin. And
when we take into consideration the voracious appetites engendered in
those wilds, we shall see that the emigrant needed not to look with
envy upon the luxuriantly spread tables of Paris or New York.
Upon the crystal banks of the Mulberry River, David, aided by his
father-in-law, reared his log cabin. It is a remote and uncultivated
region even now. Then it was an almost unbroken wilderness, the axe of
the settler having rarely disturbed its solitude.
A suitable spot for the cabin was selected, and a space of about
fifteen feet by twenty feet was marked out and smoothed down for the
floor. There was no cellar. Trees near by, of straight trunks, were
felled and trimmed, and cut into logs of suitable length. These were
piled one above another, in such a way as to enclose the space, and
were held in their place by being notched at the corners. Rough boards
were made for the roof by splitting straight-grained logs about four
feet long.
The door was made by cutting or sawing the logs on one side of the hut,
about three feet in width. This opening was secured by upright pieces
of timber pinned to the end of the logs. A similar opening was left in
the end for the chimney, which was built of logs outside of the hut.
The back and jambs of the fireplace was of stone. A hole about two feet
square constituted the window. Frequently the floor was the smooth,
solid earth. A split slab supported by sticks driven into auger-holes,
formed a table. A few three-legged stools supplied the place of chairs.
Some wooden pins, driven into holes bored in the logs, supported
shelves. A bedstead was framed by a network of poles in one corner.
Such was the home which David and his kind father reared in a few days.
It will be perceived that it was but little in advance of the wigwam of
the Indian. Still it afforded a comfortable shelter for men, women, and
children who had no aspirations above a mere animal life; who thought
only of warmth, food, and clothing; who had no conception of
intellectual, moral, or religious cravings.
The kind-hearted father-in-law, who had accompanied his children on
foot upon this long journey, that he might see them settled in their
own home, now bade them adieu, and retraced the forest trails back to
his own far-distant cabin. A man who could develop, unostentatiously,
such generosity and such self-sacrifice, must have possessed some rare
virtues. We regret our inability to record the name of one who thus
commands our esteem and affection.
In this humble home, David Crockett and his family resided two years.
He appears to have taken very little interest in the improvement of his
homestead. It must be admitted that Crockett belonged to the class of
what is called loafers. He was a sort of Rip Van Winkle. The forest and
the mountain stream had great charms for him. He loved to wander in
busy idleness all the day, with fishing-rod and rifle; and he would
often return at night with a very ample supply of game. He would then
lounge about his hut, tanning deerskins for moccasins and breeches,
performing other little jobs, and entirely neglecting all endeavors to
improve his farm, or to add to the appearance or comfort of the
miserable shanty which he called his home.
He had an active mind, and a very singular command of the language of
low, illiterate life, and especially of backwoodman's slang. Though not
exactly a vain man, his self-confidence was imperturbable, and there
was perhaps not an individual in the world to whom he looked up as in
any sense his superior. In hunting, his skill became very remarkable,
and few, even of the best marksmen, could throw the bullet with more
unerring aim.
At the close of two years of this listless, solitary life, Crockett,
without any assigned reason, probably influenced only by that vagrancy
of spirit which had taken entire possession of the man, made another
move. Abandoning his crumbling shanty and untilled fields, he directed
his steps eastwardly through the forest, a distance of about forty
miles, to what is now Franklin County. Here he reared another hut, on
the banks of a little stream called Bear's Creek. This location was
about ten miles below the present hamlet of Winchester.
An event now took place which changed the whole current of David
Crockett's life, leading him from his lonely cabin and the peaceful
scenes of a hunter's life to the field of battle, and to all the cruel
and demoralizing influences of horrid war.
For many years there had been peace with the Indians in all that
region. But unprincipled and vagabond white men, whom no law in the
wilderness could restrain, were ever plundering them, insulting them,
and wantonly shooting them down on the slightest provocation. The
constituted authorities deplored this state of things, but could no
more prevent it than the restraints of justice can prevent robberies
and assassinations in London or New York.
The Indians were disposed to be friendly. There can be no question
that, but for these unendurable outrages, inflicted upon them by vile
and fiend-like men, many of whom had fled from the avenging arm of law,
peace between the white man and the red man would have remained
undisturbed. In the extreme southern region of Alabama, near the
junction of the Alabama River with the almost equally majestic
Tombeckbee River, there had been erected, several years before, for the
protection of the emigrants, a fort called Mimms. It consisted of
several strong log huts, surrounded by palisades which enclosed several
acres. A strongly barred gate afforded entrance to the area within.
Loop-holes were cut through the palisades, just sufficiently large to
allow the barrel of a musket to be thrust through, and aim to be taken
at any approaching foe.
The space within was sufficient to accommodate several families, who
were thus united for mutual protection. Their horses and other cattle
could be driven within the enclosure at night. In case of a general
alarm, the pioneers, occupying huts scattered through the region for
miles around, could assemble in the fort. Their corn-fields were
outside, to cultivate which, even in times of war, they could resort in
armed bands, setting a watch to give warning of any signs of danger.
The fort was in the middle of a small and fertile prairie. The
forest-trees were cut down around, and every obstacle removed which
could conceal the approach of a foe or protect him from the fire of the
garrison. The long-continued peace had caused vigilance to slumber. A
number of families resided in the fort, unapprehensive of danger.
One evening, a negro boy, who had been out into the forest at some
distance from the fort in search of cattle, came back saying that he
saw far in the distance quite a number of Indians, apparently armed
warriors. As it was known that the Creek Indians had been greatly
exasperated by recent outrages inflicted upon them, this intelligence
created some anxiety. The gate was carefully closed. A guard was set
through the night, and some slight preparations were made to repel an
assault, should one be made.
Thus several days were passed, and there was no attack, and no signs of
Indians being near. The general impression was that the timid negro boy
was the victim of his own fears. Many jokes were perpetrated at his
expense. With wonted carelessness, all precautions were forgotten, and
the men sallied thoughtlessly forth to disperse through the fields in
their labors.
But after several days, the boy was again sent out into the woods upon
the same errand as before. He was a timid little fellow, and had a
great dread of the Indian. Tremblingly and cautiously he threaded the
paths of the forest for several miles, keeping a vigilant lookout for
any signs of the savage foe, when his eye fell upon a sight which
appalled him. At but a short distance, as he stood concealed by the
thickets through which he was moving, he saw several hundred Indian
warriors, plumed and painted, and armed to the teeth. They had probably
just broken up from a council, and were moving about among the trees.
His fears magnified their numbers to thousands.
Terror-stricken, he turned for the fort, and with almost the fleetness
of a deer entered the gate with his tidings. Even his black face was
pallid with fright, as he breathlessly told his story. "The Indians,"
said he, "were as many, and as close together as the trees. There were
thousands." The alarm was sounded in the garrison. All the outsiders
were called in. The sun shone serenely, the gentle breeze swept over
the fertile prairie; not a sight was to be seen but what was peaceful,
not a sound came from the forest but the songs of birds.
It was generally believed that the silly, cowardly boy had given a
false alarm. They cross-examined him. He was so frightened that he
could not tell a straight story. The men, indignant at being thus a
second time duped, as they supposed, actually tied the poor boy to the
whipping-post and commenced whipping him. But a few lashes had left
their bloody marks upon his back when the uplifted arm of the
executioner was arrested.
The awful Indian war-whoop, the precursor of blood and flame and
torture, which even the boldest heart could seldom hear without terror,
burst as it were simultaneously from a hundred warrior lips. The wary
savages had provided themselves with sharpened sticks. Rending the
skies with their yells, they rushed forward from the gloom of the woods
upon the totally unprovided garrison, and very speedily plugged up the
loop-holes, so that not a musket could be discharged through them.
Then with their hatchets they commenced cutting down the palisades. The
bewilderment and consternation within was indescribable. A few of the
assailants hewing at the barricades were shot down, but others
instantly took their places. Soon a breach was cut through, and the
howling warriors like maddened demons rushed in. There was no mercy
shown. The gleaming tomahawk, wielded by hundreds of brawny arms,
expeditiously did its work. Men, women, and children were
indiscriminately cut down and scalped. It was an awful scene of
butchery. Scarcely an individual escaped.
One athletic boy, after having seen his father, mother, four sisters,
and four brothers tomahawked and scalped, pursued by the savages, with
frantic energy succeeded in leaping the palisades. Several Indians gave
chase. He rushed for the woods. They hotly pursued. He reached a
sluggish stream, upon the shore of which, half-imbedded in sand and
water, there was a mouldering log, which he chanced to know was hollow
beneath. He had but just time to slip into this retreat, when the
baffled Indians came up. They actually walked over the log in their
unavailing search for him. Here he remained until night, when he stole
from his hiding-place, and in safety reached Fort Montgomery, which was
distant about two miles from Fort Mimms.
CHAPTER IV.
The Soldier Life.
War with the Creeks.--Patriotism of Crockett.--Remonstrances of his
Wife.--Enlistment.--The Rendezvous.--Adventure of the
Scouts.--Friendlier Indians.--A March through the Forest.--Picturesque
Scene.--The Midnight Alarm.--March by Moon-light.--Chagrin of
Crockett.--Advance into Alabama.--War's Desolations.--Indian
Stoicism.--Anecdotes of Andrew Jackson.--Battles, Carnage, and Woe.
The awful massacre at Fort Mimms, by the Creek Indians, summoned, as
with a trumpet peal, the whole region to war. David Crockett had
listened eagerly to stories of Indian warfare in former years, and as
he listened to the tales of midnight conflagration and slaughter, his
naturally peaceful spirit had no yearnings for the renewal of such
sanguinary scenes. Crockett was not a quarrelsome man. He was not fond
of brawls and fighting. Nothing in his life had thus far occurred to
test his courage. Though there was great excitement to be found in
hunting, there was but little if any danger. The deer and all smaller
game were harmless. And even the grizzly bear had but few terrors for a
marksman who, with unerring aim, could strike him with the deadly
bullet at the distance of many rods.
But the massacre at Fort Mimms roused a new spirit in David Crockett.
He perceived at once, that unless the savages were speedily quelled,
they would ravage the whole region; and that his family as well as that
of every other pioneer must inevitably perish. It was manifest to him
that every man was bound immediately to take arms for the general
defence. In a few days a summons was issued for every able-bodied man
in all that region to repair to Winchester, which, as we have said, was
a small cluster of houses about ten miles from Crockett's cabin.
When he informed his wife of his intention, her womanly heart was
appalled at the thought of being left alone and unprotected in the vast
wilderness. She was at a distance of hundreds of miles from all her
connections. She had no neighbors near. Her children were too young to
be of any service to her. If the dreadful Indians should attack them,
she had no one to look to for protection. If anything should happen to
him in battle so that he should not return, they must all perish of
starvation. These obvious considerations she urged with many tears.
"It was mighty hard," writes Crockett, "to go against such arguments as
these. But my countrymen had been murdered, and I knew that the next
thing would be that the Indians would be scalping the women and
children all about there, if we didn't put a stop to it. I reasoned the
case with her as well as I could, and told her that if every man would
wait till his wife got willing for him to go to war, there would be no
fighting done until we all should be killed in our own houses; that as
I was as able to go as any man in the world, and that I believed it was
a duty I owed to my country. Whether she was satisfied with this
reasoning or not she did not tell me, but seeing I was bent on it, all
she did was to cry a little, and turn about to her work."
David Crockett hastened to Winchester. There was a large gathering
there from all the hamlets and cabins for many miles around. The
excitement was intense. The nation of Creek Indians was a very powerful
one, and in intelligence and military skill far in advance of most of
the Indian tribes. Mr. Crockett was one of the first to volunteer to
form a company to serve for sixty days, under Captain Jones, who
subsequently was a member of Congress from Tennessee. In a week the
whole company was organized, and commenced its march to join others for
the invasion of the Creek country. It was thought that by carrying the
war directly into the Indian towns, their warriors might be detained at
home to protect their wives and children, and could thus be prevented
from carrying desolation into the settlements of the whites.
In the mean time David Crockett revisited his humble home, where his
good but anxious and afflicted wife fitted him out as well as she could
for the campaign. David was not a man of sentiment and was never
disposed to contemplate the possibility of failure in any of his plans.
With a light heart he bade adieu to his wife and his children, and
mounting his horse, set out for his two months' absence to hunt up and
shoot the Indians. He took only the amount of clothing he wore, as he
wished to be entirely unencumbered when he should meet the sinewy and
athletic foe on the battle-field.
This company, of about one hundred mounted men, commenced its march for
an appointed rendezvous called Beatty's Spring. Here they encamped for
several days, waiting the arrival of other companies from distant
quarters. Ere long there was collected quite an imposing army of
thirteen hundred men, all on horseback, and all hardy backwoodsmen,
armed with the deadly rifle. A more determined set of men was perhaps
never assembled. While they were thus gathering from far and near, and
making all preparations to burst upon the foe in one of war's most
terrific tempests, Major Gibson came, and wanted a few men, of tried
sagacity and hardihood, to accompany him on a reconnoitring tour across
the Tennessee River, down through the wilderness, into the country of
the Creek Indians. It was a very hazardous enterprise. The region
swarmed with savages. They were very vigilant. They were greatly and
justly exasperated. If the reconnoitring party were captured, the
certain doom of its members would be death by the most dreadful
tortures.
Captain Jones pointed out David Crockett as one of the most suitable
men for this enterprise. Crockett unhesitatingly consented to go, and,
by permission, chose a companion by the name of George Russel, a young
man whose courage and sagacity were far in advance of his years.
"I called him up," writes Crockett, "but Major Gibson said he thought
he hadn't beard enough to please him; he wanted men, not boys. I must
confess I was a little nettled at this; for I know'd George Russel, and
I know'd there was no mistake in him; and I didn't think that courage
ought to be measured by the beard, for fear a goat would have the
preference over a man. I told the Major he was on the wrong scent; that
Russel could go as far as he could, and I must have him along. He saw I
was a little wrathy, and said I had the best chance of knowing, and
agreed that it should be as I wanted it."
The heroic little band, thirteen in number, well armed and well
mounted, set out early in the morning on their perilous enterprise.
They crossed the Tennessee River, and directing their steps south,
through a region almost entirely uninhabited by white men, journeyed
cautiously along, keeping themselves concealed as much as possible in
the fastnesses of the forest. They crossed the river, at what was
called Ditto's Landing, and advancing about seven miles beyond, found a
very secluded spot, one of nature's hiding-places, where they took up
their encampment for the night.
Here they chanced to come across a man by the name of John Haynes, who
for several years had been a trader among the Indians. He was
thoroughly acquainted with the whole region about to be traversed, and
consented to act as a guide. For the next day's march, instructed by
their guide, the party divided into two bands, following along two
obscure trails, which came together again after winding through the
wilderness a distance of about twenty miles. Major Gibson led a party
of seven, and David Crockett the other party of six.
The Cherokee Indians, a neighboring nation, powerful and warlike, were
not in alliance with the Creeks in this war. They were, at that time,
in general friendly to the whites. Many of their warriors were even
induced to join the whites and march under their banners. On each of
the trails that day to be passed over, there was the lodge of a
Cherokee Indian. Both of them were friendly. Each of the parties was to
collect all the information possible from these Indians, and then to
meet where the trails came together again.
When Crockett arrived at the wigwam of the Indian he met with a very
friendly reception. He also found there a half-breed Cherokee, by the
name of Jack Thompson. This man, of savage birth and training, but with
the white man's blood in his veins, offered to join the reconnoitring
party. He however was not ready just then to set out, but in a few
hours would follow and overtake the band at its night's encampment.
It was not safe to encamp directly upon the trail, lest some Creek
war-party should be passing along, and should discover them. It was
necessary to seek concealment where even the prying eyes of the savage
would with difficulty search them out. The cry of the shriek-owl is
exceedingly shrill, and can be heard at a great distance. A particular
spot on the trail was designated, near which Crockett would seek his
secret encampment. When Jack Thompson reached that spot, he was to
imitate the cry of the owl. Crockett would respond, and thus guide the
Indian to his retreat. As night approached, Crockett, with his party,
found a deep and dark ravine, where, encircled by almost impenetrable
thickets, he hid his men and the horses. No campfires could be built.
It was ten o'clock in the night when, in the distance, he heard the
signal shriek of the owl, a cry too common to arrest the attention of
any Indian bands who might be in the vicinity. Jack, guided by a
responsive cry, soon found the place of concealment, and there the
party remained through the night.
The next morning after breakfast they set out to join Major Gibson and
his band; but, in some way, they had lost track of him, and he could
not be found. Some were alarmed, as, in so small a band, they were
entering the domains of their powerful foe. Crockett taunted them with
their fears; and indeed fear kept them together. The party consisted
now of seven, including the Indian guide. Most of them determined to
press on. The two or three who were in favor of going back dared not
separate from the rest.
At the distance of about twenty miles, Jack Thompson told them that
there was a village of friendly Cherokee Indians. As he was leading
them through obscure trails toward that place, they came across the hut
of a white man, by the name of Radcliff, who had married a Creek woman,
and had been adopted into their tribe. The man had two nearly grown-up
boys, stout, burly fellows, half-breeds by birth, and more than half
savage in character and training. The old man's cabin was slightly
above the usual style of Indian wigwams. It was in a region of utter
solitude.
There Radcliff had taught his barbarian boys some of the arts of
industry. He had cleared quite a space of ground around his hut, and
was raising a supply of corn and potatoes ample for his family wants.
With these vegetable productions, and with the game which the rifle
supplied them, they lived in abundance, and free from most of those
cares which agitate a higher civilization.
But the old man was quite agitated in receiving and entertaining his
unwelcome guests. He was an adopted Creek, and ought to be in sympathy
with his nation. He was bound to regard the white men as his enemies,
to withhold from them all important information, and to deliver them up
to the Creeks if possible. Should he be suspected of sympathy with the
white men, the tomahawk of the savage would soon cleave his brain. He
entreated Crockett immediately to leave him.
"Only an hour ago," said he, "there were ten Creek warriors here, all
on horseback, and painted and armed. Should they come back and discover
you here, they would certainly kill you all, and put me and my family
to death also."
But Crockett, instead of being alarmed by this intelligence, was only
animated by it. He assured Radcliff that he could desire no better luck
than to meet a dozen Indians on the war-path. He considered his party
quite strong enough to meet, at any time, three times their number.
Evening was approaching, and the full moon, in cloudless brilliance,
was rising over the forest, flooding the whole landscape with
extraordinary splendor. After feeding their horses abundantly and
feasting themselves from the fat larder of their host, they saddled
their steeds and resumed their journey by moonlight.
The trail still led through the silent forest. It was, as usual, very
narrow, so that the horses walked along in single file. As there was
danger of falling into an ambush, not a word was spoken, and, as
noiselessly as possible, they moved onward, every eye on the eager
lookout. They had been thus riding along when Crockett, in the advance,
heard the noise of some animals or persons apparently approaching. At a
given signal, instantly the whole party stopped. Every man grasped his
rifle, ready in case of need, to leap from his horse, and select the
largest tree near him as a rampart for the battle.
All solicitude was, however, soon dispelled by seeing simply two
persons advancing along the trail on Indian ponies. They proved to be
two negro slaves who had been captured by the Indians, and who, having
escaped, were endeavoring to make their way back to their former
master. They were brothers, and being both very stout men, and able to
speak the Indian as well as the English language, were esteemed quite a
powerful reinforcement to the Crockett party.
They rode quietly along another hour and a half, when toward midnight
they saw in the distance the gleam of camp-fires, and heard shouts of
merriment and revelry. They knew that these must come from the camp of
the friendly Cherokees, to which their Indian guide, Jack Thompson, was
leading them. Soon a spectacle of wonderful picturesque beauty was
opened to their view.
Upon the banks of a beautiful mountain stream there was a wide plateau,
carpeted with the renowned blue-grass, as verdant and soft as could be
found in any gentleman's park. There was no underbrush. The trees were
two or three yards from each other, composing a luxuriant overhanging
canopy of green leaves, more beautiful than art could possibly create.
Beneath this charming grove, and illumined by the moonshine which, in
golden tracery, pierced the foliage, there were six or eight Indian
lodges scattered about.
An immense bonfire was crackling and blazing, throwing its rays far and
wide through the forest. Moving around, in various engagements and
sports, were about forty men, women, and children, in the fringed,
plumed, and brilliantly colored attire of which the Indians were so
fond. Quite a number of them, with bows and arrows, were shooting at a
mark, which was made perfectly distinct by the blaze of pitch-pine
knots, a light which no flame of candle or gas could outvie. It was a
scene of sublimity and beauty, of peace and loveliness, which no artist
could adequately transfer to canvas.
The Cherokees received very cordially the newcomers, took care of their
horses, and introduced them to their sports. Many of the Indians had
guns, but powder and bullets were too precious to be expended in mere
amusements. Indeed, the Indians were so careful of their ammunition,
that they rarely put more than half as much powder into a charge as a
white man used. They endeavored to make up for the deficiency by
creeping nearer to their prey.
Crockett and his men joined these barbarians, merry in their pleasant
sports. Such are the joys of peace, so different from the miseries of
demoniac war. At length the festivities were closed, and all began to
prepare to retire to sleep.
The Cherokees were neutral in the war between the whites and the Creek
Indians. It was very important for them to maintain this neutrality
strictly, that they might not draw down upon themselves the vengeance
of either party. Some of the Cherokees now began to feel anxious lest a
war-party of the Creeks should come along and find them entertaining a
war-party of whites, who were entering their country as spies. They
therefore held an interview with one of the negroes, and requested him
to inform Mr. Crockett that should a war-party come and find his men in
the Cherokee village, not only would they put all the white men to
death, but there would be also the indiscriminate massacre of all the
men, women, and children in the Cherokee lodges.
Crockett, wrapped in his blanket, was half asleep when this message was
brought to him. Raising his head, he said to the negro, in terms rather
savoring of the spirit of the braggadocio than that of a high-minded
and sympathetic man:
"Tell the Cherokees that I will keep a sharp lookout, and if a single
Creek comes near the camp to-night, I will carry the skin of his head
home to make me a moccasin."
When this answer was reported to the Indians they laughed aloud and
dispersed. It was not at all improbable that there might be an alarm
before morning. The horses were therefore, after being well fed, tied
up with their saddles upon them, that they might be instantly mounted
in case of emergence. They all slept, also, with their arms in their
hands.
Just as Crockett was again falling into a doze, a very shrill Indian
yell was heard in the forest, the yell of alarm. Every man, white and
red, was instantly upon his feet. An Indian runner soon made his
appearance, with the tidings that more than a thousand Creek warriors
had, that day, crossed the Coosa River, but a few leagues south of
them, at what was called the Ten Islands, and were on the march to
attack an American force, which, under General Jackson, was assembling
on another portion of the Coosa River.
The friendly Indians were so greatly alarmed that they immediately
fled. Crockett felt bound to carry back this intelligence as speedily
as possible to the headquarters from which he had come. He had
traversed a distance of about sixty miles in a southerly direction.
They returned, by the same route over which they had passed. But they
found that a general alarm had pervaded the country, Radcliff and his
family, abandoning everything, had fled, they knew not where. When they
reached the Cherokee town of which we have before spoken, not a single
Indian was to be seen. Their fires were still burning, which showed the
precipitancy with which they had taken flight. This rather alarmed the
party of the whites. They feared that the Indian warriors were
assembling from all quarters, at some secret rendezvous, and would soon
fall upon them in overwhelming numbers. They therefore did not venture
to replenish the Indian fires and lie down by the warmth of them, but
pushed rapidly on their way.
It chanced to be a serene, moonlight night. The trail through the
forest, which the Indian's foot for countless generations had trodden
smooth, illumined by the soft rays of the moon, was exceedingly
beautiful. They travelled in single file, every nerve at its extreme
tension in anticipation of falling into some ambush. Before morning
they had accomplished about thirty miles. In the grey dawn they again
reached Mr. Brown's. Here they found grazing for their horses, and corn
and game for them selves.
Horses and riders were equally fatigued. The weary adventurers were in
no mood for talking. After dozing for an hour or two, they again set
out, and about noon reached the general rendezvous, from which they had
departed but a few days before. Here Crockett was not a little
disappointed in the reception he encountered. He was a young, raw
backwoodsman, nearly on a level with the ordinary savage. He was
exceedingly illiterate, and ignorant. And yet he had the most amazing
self-confidence, with not a particle of reverence for any man, whatever
his rank or culture. He thought no one his superior. Colonel Coffee
paid very little respect to his vainglorious report. In the following
characteristic strain Crockett comments on the event:
"He didn't seem to mind my report a bit. This raised my dander higher
than ever. But I know'd that I had to be on my best behavior, and so I
kept it all to myself; though I was so mad that I was burning inside
like a tar-kiln, and I wonder that the smoke had not been pouring out
of me at all points. The next day, Major Gibson got in. He brought a
worse tale than I had, though he stated the same facts as far as I
went. This seemed to put our Colonel all in a fidget; and it convinced
me clearly of one of the hateful ways of the world. When I made my
report I was not believed, because I was no officer. I was no great
man, but just a poor soldier. But when the same thing was reported by
Major Gibson, why then it was all true as preaching, and the Colonel
believed it every word."
There was indeed cause for alarm. Many of the Indian chiefs displayed
military ability of a very high order. Our officers were frequently
outgeneralled by their savage antagonists. This was so signally the
case that the Indians frequently amused themselves in laughing to scorn
the folly of the white men. Every able-bodied man was called to work in
throwing up breastworks. A line of ramparts was speedily constructed,
nearly a quarter of a mile in circuit. An express was sent to
Fayetteville, where General Jackson was assembling an army, to summon
him to the rescue. With characteristic energy he rushed forward, by
forced marches day and night, until his troops stood, with blistered
feet, behind the newly erected ramparts.
They felt now safe from attack by the Indians. An expedition of eight
hundred volunteers, of which Crockett was one, was fitted out to
recross the Tennessee River, and marching by the way of Huntsville, to
attack the Indians from an unexpected quarter. This movement involved a
double crossing of the Tennessee. They pressed rapidly along the
northern bank of this majestic stream, about forty or fifty miles, due
west, until they came to a point where the stream expands into a width
of nearly two miles. This place was called Muscle Shoals. The river
could here be forded, though the bottom was exceedingly rough. The men
were all mounted. Several horses got their feet so entangled in the
crevices of the rocks that they could not be disengaged, and they
perished there. The men, thus dismounted, were compelled to perform the
rest of the campaign on foot.
A hundred miles south of this point, in the State of Alabama, the
Indians had a large village, called Black Warrior. The lodges of the
Indians were spread over the ground where the city of Tuscaloosa now
stands. The wary Indians kept their scouts out in all directions. The
runners conveyed to the warriors prompt warning of the approach of
their foes. These Indians were quite in advance of the northern tribes.
Their lodges were full as comfortable as the log huts of the pioneers,
and in their interior arrangements more tasteful. The buildings were
quite numerous. Upon many of them much labor had been expended.
Luxuriant corn-fields spread widely around, and in well-cultivated
gardens they raised beans and other vegetables in considerable
abundance.
The hungry army found a good supply of dried beans for themselves, and
carefully housed corn for their horses. They feasted themselves, loaded
their pack-horses with corn and beans, applied the torch to every
lodge, laying the whole town in ashes, and then commenced their
backward march. Fresh Indian tracks indicated that many of them had
remained until the last moment of safety.
The next day the army marched back about fifteen miles to the spot
where it had held its last encampment. Eight hundred men, on a
campaign, consume a vast amount of food. Their meat was all devoured.
They had now only corn and beans. The soldiers were living mostly on
parched corn. Crockett went to Colonel Coffee, then in command, and
stating, very truthfully, that he was an experienced hunter, asked
permission to draw aside from the ranks, and hunt as they marched
along. The Colonel gave his consent, but warned him to be watchful in
the extreme, lest he should fall into an Indian ambush.
Crockett was brave, but not reckless. He plunged into the forest, with
vigilant gaze piercing the solitary space in all directions. He was
alone, on horseback. He had not gone far when he found a deer just
killed by a noiseless arrow. The animal was but partially skinned, and
still warm and smoking. The deer had certainly been killed by an
Indian; and it was equally certain that the savage, seeing his
approach, had fled. The first thought of Crockett was one of alarm. The
Indian might be hidden behind some one of the gigantic trees, and the
next moment a bullet, from the Indian's rifle, might pierce his heart.
But a second thought reassured him. The deer had been killed by an
arrow. Had the Indian been armed with a rifle, nothing would have been
easier, as he saw the approach of Crockett in the distance than for him
to have concealed himself, and then to have taken such deliberate aim
at his victim as to be sure of his death. Mounting the horse which
Crockett rode, the savage might have disappeared in the wilderness
beyond all possibility of pursuit. But this adventure taught Crockett
that he might not enjoy such good luck the next time. Another Indian
might be armed with a rifle, and Crockett, self-confident as he was,
could not pretend to be wiser in woodcraft than were the savages.
Crockett dismounted, took up the body of the deer, laid it upon the
mane of his horse, in front of the saddle, and remounting, with
increasing vigilance made his way, as rapidly as he could, to the trail
along which the army was advancing. He confesses to some qualms of
conscience as to the right of one hunter thus to steal away the game
killed by another.
It was late in the afternoon when he reached the rear. He pressed along
to overtake his own company. The soldiers looked wistfully at the
venison. They offered him almost any price for it. Crockett was by
nature a generous man. There was not a mean hair in his head. This
generosity was one of the virtues which gave him so many friends.
Rather boastfully, and yet it must be admitted truthfully, he writes,
in reference to this adventure:
"I could have sold it for almost any price I would have asked. But this
wasn't my rule, neither in peace nor war. Whenever I had anything and
saw a fellow-being suffering, I was more anxious to relieve him than to
benefit myself. And this is one of the true secrets of my being a poor
man to the present day. But it is my way. And while it has often left
me with an empty purse, yet it has never left my heart empty of
consolations which money couldn't buy; the consolation of having
sometimes fed the hungry and covered the naked. I gave all my deer away
except a small part, which I kept for myself, and just sufficient to
make a good supper for my mess."
The next day, in their march, they came upon a drove of swine, which
belonged to a Cherokee farmer. The whites were as little disposed as
were the Indians, in this war, to pay any respect to private property.
Hundreds of rifles were aimed at the poor pigs, and their squealing
indicated that they had a very hard time of it. The army, in its
encampment that night, feasted very joyously upon fresh pork. This
thrifty Cherokee was also the possessor of a milch cow. The animal was
speedily slaughtered and devoured.
They soon came upon another detachment of the army, and uniting,
marched to Ten Islands, on the Coosa River, where they established a
fort, which they called Fort Strother, as a depot for provisions and
ammunition. They were here not far from the centre of the country
inhabited by the hostile Indians. This fort stood on the left bank of
the river, in what is now St. Clair County, Alabama. It was a region
but little explored, and the whites had but little acquaintance with
the nature of the country around them, or with the places occupied by
the Indians. Some scouts, from the friendly Creeks, brought the
intelligence that, at the distance of about eight miles from the fort,
there was an Indian town, where a large party of warriors was assembled
in preparation for some secret expedition. A large and select band was
immediately dispatched, on horseback, to attack them by surprise. Two
friendly Creeks led them with Indian sagacity through circuitous
trails. Stealthily they approached the town, and dividing their force,
marched on each side so as to encircle it completely. Aided by their
Creek guides, this important movement was accomplished without the
warriors discovering their approach. The number of the whites was so
great that they were enabled to surround the town with so continuous a
line that escape was impossible for any enclosed within that fearful
barrier of loaded rifles wielded by unerring marksmen. Closer and more
compactly the fatal line was drawn. These movements were accomplished
in the dim morning twilight.
All being ready, Captain Hammond, and a few rangers, were sent forward
to show themselves, and to bring on the fight. The moment the warriors
caught sight of them, one general war-whoop rose from every throat.
Grasping their rifles, they rushed headlong upon the rangers, who
retired before them. They soon reached one portion of the compact line,
and were received with a terrible fire, which struck many of them down
in instant death. The troops then closed rapidly upon the doomed
Indians, and from the north, the south, the east, and the west, they
were assailed by a deadly storm of bullets.
Almost immediately the Indians saw that they were lost. There was no
possibility of escape. This was alike manifest to every one, to
warrior, squaw, and pappoose. All surrendered themselves to despair.
The warriors threw down their weapons, in sign of surrender. Some
rushed into the lodges. Some rushed toward the soldiers, stretching out
their unarmed hands in supplication for life. The women in particular,
panic-stricken, ran to the soldiers, clasped them about the knees, and
looked up into their faces with piteous supplications for life.
Crockett writes:
"I saw seven squaws have hold of one man. So I hollered out the
Scriptures was fulfilling; that there was seven women holding to one
man's coat-tail. But I believe it was a hunting-shirt all the time. We
took them all prisoners that came out to us in this way."
Forty-six warriors, by count, threw down their arms in token of
surrender, and ran into one of the large houses. A band of soldiers
pursued them, with the apparent intent of shooting them down. It was
considered rare sport to shoot an Indian. A woman came to the door, bow
and arrow in hand. Fixing the arrow upon the string, she drew the bow
with all the strength of her muscular arm, and let the arrow fly into
the midst of the approaching foe. It nearly passed through the body of
Lieutenant Moore, killing him instantly. The woman made no attempt to
evade the penalty which she knew weald follow this act. In an instant
twenty bullets pierced her body, and she fell dead at the door of the
house.
The infuriate soldiers rushed in and shot the defenceless warriors
mercilessly, until every one was fatally wounded or dead. They then set
the house on fire and burned it up, with the forty-six warriors in it.
It mattered not to them whether the flames consumed the flesh of the
living or of the dead.
There was something very remarkable in the stoicism which the Indians
ever manifested. There was a bright-looking little Indian boy, not more
than twelve years of age, whose arm was shattered by one bullet and his
thigh-bone by another. Thus terribly wounded, the poor child crept from
the flames of the burning house. There was no pity in that awful hour
to come to his relief. The heat was so intense that his almost naked
body could be seen blistering and frying by the fire. The heroic boy,
striving in vain to crawl along, was literally roasted alive; and yet
he did not utter an audible groan.
The slaughter was awful. But five of the Americans were killed. One
hundred and eighty-six of the Indians were either killed or taken
prisoners. The party returned with their captives the same day to Fort
Strother. The army had so far consumed its food that it was placed on
half rations. The next day a party was sent back to the smouldering
town to see if any food could be found. Even these hardy pioneers were
shocked at the awful spectacle which was presented. The whole place was
in ruins. The half-burned bodies of the dead, in awful mutilation, were
scattered around. Demoniac war had performed one of its most fiend-like
deeds.
On this bloody field an Indian babe was found clinging to the bosom of
its dead mother. Jackson urged some of the Indian women who were
captives to give it nourishment. They replied:
"All the child's friends are killed. There is no one to care for the
helpless babe. It is much better that it should die."
Jackson took the child under his own care, ordered it to be conveyed to
his tent, nursed it with sugar and water, took it eventually with him
to the Hermitage, and brought it up as his son. He gave the boy the
name of Lincoyer. He grew up a finely formed young man, and died of
consumption at the age of seventeen.
Jackson was a very stern man. The appeals of pity could seldom move his
heart. Still there were traits of heroism which marked his character.
On the return march, a half-starved soldier came to Jackson with a
piteous story of his famished condition. Jackson drew from his pocket a
handful of acorns, and presenting a portion to the man, said:
"This is all the fare I have. I will share it with you."
Beneath one of the houses was found quite a large cellar, well stored
with potatoes. These were eagerly seized. All the other stores of the
Indians the insatiable flames had consumed. Starvation now began to
threaten the army. The sparsely settled country afforded no scope for
forage. There were no herds of cattle, no well-replenished magazines
near at hand. Neither was there game enough in the spreading wilderness
to supply so many hungry mouths. The troops were compelled to eat even
the very hides of the cattle whom they had driven before them, and who
were now all slaughtered.
While in this forlorn condition, awaiting the arrival of food, and
keeping very vigilant guard against surprise, one night an Indian,
cautiously approaching from the forest, shouted out that he wished to
see General Jackson, for he had important information to communicate.
He was conducted to the General's tent. The soldiers knew not the news
which he brought. But immediately the beat of drums summoned all to
arms. In less than an hour a strong party of cavalry and infantry, in
the darkness, were on the march. General Andrew Jackson was one of the
most energetic of men. The troops crossed the Coosa River to the
eastern shore, and as rapidly as possible pressed forward in a
southerly direction toward Talladega, which was distant about thirty
miles. Gradually the rumor spread through the ranks that General
Jackson had received the following intelligence: At Talladega there was
a pretty strong fort, occupied by friendly Indians. They had resolutely
refused to take part in the war against the Americans. Eleven hundred
hostile warriors, of the Creek nation, marched upon the fort, encamped
before it, and sent word to the friendly Indians within the palisades,
that if they did not come out and join them in an expedition against
the whites, they would utterly demolish the fort and take all their
provisions and ammunition. The Creeks were in sufficient strength to
accomplish their threat.
The friendly Indians asked for three days to consider the proposition.
They stated that if, at the end of this time, they did not come out to
join them in an expedition against the whites, they would surrender the
fort. The request was granted. Instantly an Indian runner was
dispatched to inform General Jackson, at Fort Strother, of their danger
and to entreat him to come to their aid. Hence the sudden movement.
The Creek warriors had their scouts out, carefully watching, and were
speedily apprised of the approach of General Jackson's band.
Immediately they sent word into the fort, to the friendly Indians
there, that the American soldiers were coming, with many fine horses,
and richly stored with guns, blankets, powder, bullets, and almost
everything else desirable. They promised that if the Indians would come
out from the fort, and help them attack and conquer the whites, they
would divide the rich plunder with them. They assured them that, by
thus uniting, they could easily gain the victory over the whites, who
were the deadly foes of their whole race. The appeal was not responded
to.
A little south of the fort there was a stream, which, in its circuitous
course, partially encircled it. The bank was high, leaving a slight
level space or meadow between it and the stream. Here the hostile
Indians were encamped, and concealed from any approaches from the
north. It was at midnight, on the 7th of December, that Jackson set out
on this expedition. He had with him, for the occasion, a very strong
force, consisting of twelve hundred infantry and eight hundred cavalry.
When they reached the fort, the army divided, passing on each side, and
again uniting beyond, as they approached the concealed encampment of
the enemy. While passing the fort, the friendly Indians clambered the
palisades, and shouted out joyously to the soldiers "How-de-do,
brother--how-de-do, brother?"
The lines, meeting beyond the fort, formed for battle. No foe was
visible. Nearly a thousand warriors, some armed with arrows, but many
with rifles, were hidden, but a few rods before them, beneath the
curving bank, which was fringed with bushes. Major Russel, with a small
party, was sent cautiously forward to feel for the enemy, and to bring
on the battle. He was moving directly into the curve, where a
concentric fire would soon cut down every one of his men.
The Indians in the fort perceived his danger, and shouted warning to
him. He did not understand their language. They made the most earnest
gestures. He did not comprehend their meaning. Two Indians then leaped
from the fort, and running toward him, seized his horse by the bridle.
They made him understand that more than a thousand warriors, with rifle
in hand and arrows on the string, were hidden, at but a short distance
before him, ready to assail him with a deadly fire. The account which
Crockett gives of the battle, though neither very graphic nor classic,
is worthy of insertion here, as illustrative of the intellectual and
moral traits of that singular man.
"This brought them to a halt; and about this moment the Indians fired
upon them, and came rushing forth like a cloud of Egyptian locusts, and
screaming like all the young devils had been turned loose with the old
devil of all at their head. Russel's company quit their arses and took
into the fort. Their horses ran up to our line, which was then in view.
The warriors then came yelling on, meeting us, and continued till they
were within shot of us, when we fired and killed a considerable number
of them. They broke like a gang of steers, and ran across to the other
line.
"And so we kept them running, from one line to the other, constantly
under a heavy fire, till we had killed upwards of four hundred of them.
They fought with guns and also with bow and arrows. But at length they
made their escape through a part of our line, which was made up of
drafted militia, which broke ranks, and they passed. We lost fifteen of
our men, as brave fellows as ever lived or died. We buried them all in
one grave, and started back to our fort. But before we got there, two
more of our men died of wounds they had received, making our total loss
seventeen good fellows in that battle."
CHAPTER V.
Indian Warfare.
The Army at Fort Strother.--Crockett's Regiment.--Crockett at
Home.--His Reenlistment.--Jackson Surprised.--Military Ability of the
Indians.--Humiliation of the Creeks.--March to Florida.--Affairs at
Pensacola.--Capture of the City.--Characteristics of Crockett.--The
Weary March,--Inglorious Expedition.--Murder of Two
Indians.--Adventures at the Island.--The Continued March.--Severe
Sufferings.--Charge upon the Uninhabited Village.
The army, upon its return to Fort Strother, found itself still in a
starving condition. Though the expedition had been eminently successful
in the destruction of Indian warriors, it had consumed their
provisions, without affording them any additional supply. The weather
had become intensely cold. The clothing of the soldiers, from hard
usage, had become nearly worn out. The horses were also emaciate and
feeble. There was danger that many of the soldiers must perish from
destitution and hunger.
The regiment to which Crockett belonged had enlisted for sixty days.
Their time had long since expired. The officers proposed to Jackson
that they and their soldiers might be permitted to return to their
homes, promising that they would immediately re-enlist after having
obtained fresh horses and fresh clothing. Andrew Jackson was by nature
one of the most unyielding of men. His will was law, and must be
obeyed, right or wrong. He was at that time one of the most profane of
men. He swore by all that was sacred that they should not go; that the
departure of so many of the men would endanger the possession of the
fort and the lives of the remaining soldiers. There were many of the
soldiers in the same condition, whose term of service had expired. They
felt that they were free and enlightened Americans, and resented the
idea of being thus enslaved and driven, like cattle, at the will of a
single man. Mutinous feelings were excited. The camp was filled with
clamor. The soldiers generally were in sympathy with those who demanded
their discharge, having faithfully served out the term of their
enlistment. Others felt that their own turn might come when they too
might be thus enslaved.
There was a bridge which it was necessary for the soldiers to cross on
the homeward route. The inflexible General, supposing that the regulars
would be obedient to military discipline, and that it would be for
their interest to retain in the camp those whose departure would
endanger all their lives placed them upon the bridge, with cannon
loaded to the muzzle with grape-shot. They were ordered mercilessly to
shoot down any who should attempt to cross without his permission. In
Crockett's ludicrous account of this adventure, he writes:
"The General refused to let us go. We were, however, determined to go.
With this, the General issued his orders against it. We began to fix
for a start. The General went and placed his cannon on a bridge we had
to cross, and ordered out his regulars and drafted men to prevent our
crossing. But when the militia started to guard the bridge, they would
holler back to us to bring their knapsacks along when we came; for they
wanted to go as bad as we did. We got ready, and moved on till we came
near the bridge, where the General's men were all strung along on both
sides. But we all had our flints ready picked and our guns ready
primed, that, if we were fired on, we might fight our way through, or
all die together.
"When we came still nearer the bridge we heard the guards cocking their
guns, and we did the same. But we marched boldly on, and not a gun was
fired, nor a life lost. When we had passed, no further attempt was made
to stop us. We went on, and near Huntsville we met a reinforcement who
were going on to join the army. It consisted of a regiment of sixty-day
volunteers. We got home pretty safely, and in a short time we had
procured fresh horses, and a supply of clothing better suited for the
season."
The officers and soldiers ere long rendezvoused again at Fort Deposit.
Personally interested as every one was in subduing the Creeks, whose
hostility menaced every hamlet with flames and the inmates of those
hamlets with massacre, still the officers were so annoyed by the
arrogance of General Jackson that they were exceedingly unwilling to
serve again under his command.
Just as they came together, a message came from General Jackson,
demanding that, on their return, they should engage to serve for six
months. He regarded enlistment merely for sixty days as absurd. With
such soldiers, he justly argued that no comprehensive campaign could be
entered upon. The officers held a meeting to decide upon this question.
In the morning, at drum-beat, they informed the soldiers of the
conclusion they had formed. Quite unanimously they decided that they
would not go back on a six-months term of service, but that each
soldier might do as he pleased. Crockett writes:
"I know'd if I went back home I wouldn't rest for I felt it my duty to
be out. And when out, I was somehow or other always delighted to be in
the thickest of the danger. A few of us, therefore, determined to push
on and join the army. The number I do not recollect, but it was very
small."
When Crockett reached Fort Strother he was placed in a company of
scouts under Major Russel. Just before they reached the fort, General
Jackson had set out on an expedition in a southeasterly direction, to
what was called Horseshoe Bend, on the Tallapoosa River. The party of
scouts soon overtook him and led the way. As they approached the spot
through the silent trails which threaded the wide solitudes, they came
upon many signs of Indians being around. The scouts gave the alarm, and
the main body of the army came up. The troops under Jackson amounted to
about one thousand men. It was the evening of January 23d, 1814.
The camp-fires were built, supper prepared, and sentinels being
carefully stationed all around to prevent surprise, the soldiers,
protected from the wintry wind only by the gigantic forest, wrapped
themselves in their blankets and threw themselves down on the withered
leaves for sleep. The Indians crept noiselessly along from tree to
tree, each man searching for a sentinel, until about too hours before
day, when they opened a well-aimed fire from the impenetrable darkness
in which they stood. The sentinels retreated back to the encampment,
and the whole army was roused.
The troops were encamped in the form of a hollow square, and thus were
necessarily between the Indians and the light of their own camp-fires.
Not a warrior was to be seen. The only guide the Americans had in
shooting, was to notice the flash of the enemy's guns. They fired at
the flash. But as every Indian stood behind a tree, it is not probable
that many, if any, were harmed. The Indians were very wary not to
expose themselves. They kept at a great distance, and were not very
successful in their fire. Though they wounded quite a number, only four
men were killed. With the dawn of the morning they all vanished.
General Jackson did not wish to leave the corpses of the slain to be
dug up and scalped by the savages. He therefore erected a large funeral
pyre, placed the bodies upon it, and they were soon consumed to ashes.
Some litters were made of long and flexible poles, attached to two
horses, one at each end, and upon these the wounded were conveyed over
the rough and narrow way. The Indians, thus far, had manifestly been
the victors They had inflicted serious injury upon the Americans; and
there is no evidence that a single one of their warriors had received
the slightest harm. This was the great object of Indian strategy. In
the wars of civilization, a great general has ever been willing to
sacrifice the lives of ten thousand of his own troops if, by so doing,
he could kill twenty thousand of the enemy. But it was never so with
the Indians. They prized the lives of their warriors too highly.
On their march the troops came to a wide creek, which it was necessary
to cross. Here the Indians again prepared for battle. They concealed
themselves so effectually as to elude all the vigilance of the scouts.
When about half the troops had crossed the stream, the almost invisible
Indians commenced their assault, opening a very rapid but scattering
fire. Occasionally a warrior was seen darting from one point to
another, to obtain better vantage-ground.
Major Russel was in command of a small rear-guard. His soldiers soon
appeared running almost breathless to join the main body, pursued by a
large number of Indians. The savages had chosen the very best moment
for their attack. The artillery-men were in an open field surrounded by
the forest. The Indians, from behind stumps, logs, and trees, took
deliberate aim, and almost every bullet laid a soldier prostrate. Quite
a panic ensued. Two of the colonels, abandoning their regiments, rushed
across the creek to escape the deadly fire. There is no evidence that
the Indians were superior in numbers to the Americans. But it cannot be
denied that the Americans, though under the leadership of Andrew
Jackson, were again outgeneralled. General Jackson lost, in this short
conflict, in killed and wounded, nearly one hundred men. His
disorganized troops at length effected the passage of the creek, beyond
which the Indians did not pursue them. Crockett writes:
"I will not say exactly that the old General was whipped. But I think
he would say himself that he was nearer whipped this time than any
other; for I know that all the world couldn't make him acknowledge that
he was pointedly whipped. I know I was mighty glad when it was over,
and the savages quit us, for I began to think there was one behind
every tree in the woods."
Crockett, having served out his term, returned home. But he was
restless there. Having once experienced the excitements of the camp,
his wild, untrained nature could not repose in the quietude of domestic
life. The conflict between the United States and a small band of
Indians was very unequal. The loss of a single warrior was to the
Creeks irreparable. General Jackson was not a man to yield to
difficulties. On the 27th of March, 1814, he drove twelve hundred Creek
warriors into their fort at Tohopeka. They were then surrounded, so
that escape was impossible, and the fort was set on fire. The carnage
was awful. Almost every warrior perished by the bullet or in the
flames. The military power of the tribe was at an end. The remnant,
utterly dispirited, sued for peace.
Quite a number of the Creek warriors fled to Florida, and joined the
hostile Indian tribes there. We were at this time involved in our
second war with Great Britain. The Government of our mother country was
doing everything in its power to rouse the savages against us. The
armies in Canada rallied most of the Northern tribes beneath their
banners. Florida, at that time, belonged to Spain. The Spanish
Government was nominally neutral in the conflict between England and
the United States. But the Spanish governor in Florida was in cordial
sympathy with the British officers. He lent them all the aid and
comfort in his power, carefully avoiding any positive violation of the
laws of neutrality. He extended very liberal hospitality to the refugee
Creek warriors, and in many ways facilitated their cooperation with the
English.
A small British fleet entered the mouth of the Apalachicola River and
landed three hundred soldiers. Here they engaged vigorously in
constructing a fort, and in summoning all the surrounding Indian tribes
to join them in the invasion of the Southern States. General Jackson,
with a force of between one and two thousand men, was in Northern
Alabama, but a few days' march north of the Florida line. He wrote to
the Secretary of War, in substance, as follows:
"The hostile Creeks have taken refuge in Florida. They are there fed,
clothed, and protected. The British have armed a large force with
munitions of war, and are fortifying and stirring up the savages. If
you will permit me to raise a few hundred militia, which can easily be
done, I will unite them with such a force of regulars as can easily be
collected, and will make a descent on Pensacola, and will reduce it. I
promise you I will bring the war in the South to a speedy termination;
and English influence with the savages, in this quarter, shall be
forever destroyed."
The President was not prepared thus to provoke war with Spain, by the
invasion of Florida. Andrew Jackson assumed the responsibility. The
British had recently made an attack upon Mobile, and being repulsed,
had retired with their squadron to the harbor of Pensacola. Jackson
called for volunteers to march upon Pensacola. Crockett roused himself
at the summons, like the war-horse who snuffs the battle from afar. "I
wanted," he wrote, "a small taste of British fighting, and I supposed
they would be there."
His wife again entered her tearful remonstrance. She pointed to her
little children, in their lonely hut far away in the wilderness, remote
from all neighborhood, and entreated the husband and the father not
again to abandon them. Rather unfeelingly he writes, "The entreaties of
my wife were thrown in the way of my going, but all in vain; for I
always had a way of just going ahead at whatever I had a mind to."
Many who have perused this sketch thus far, may inquire, with some
surprise, "What is it which has given this man such fame as is even
national? He certainly does not develop a very attractive character;
and there is but little of the romance of chivalry thrown around his
exploits. The secret is probably to be found in the following
considerations, the truth of which the continuation of this narrative
will be continually unfolding."
Without education, without refinement, without wealth or social
position, or any special claims to personal beauty, he was entirely
self-possessed and at home under all circumstances. He never manifested
the slightest embarrassment. The idea seemed never to have entered his
mind that there could be any person superior to David Crockett, or any
one so humble that Crockett was entitled to look down upon him with
condescension. He was a genuine democrat. All were in his view equal.
And this was not the result of thought, of any political or moral
principle. It was a part of his nature, which belonged to him without
any volition, like his stature or complexion. This is one of the rarest
qualities to be found in any man. We do not here condemn it, or applaud
it. We simply state the fact.
In the army he acquired boundless popularity from his fun-making
qualities. In these days he was always merry. Bursts of laughter
generally greeted Crockett's approach and followed his departure. He
was blessed with a memory which seemed absolutely never to have
forgotten anything. His mind was an inexhaustable store-house of
anecdote. These he had ever at command. Though they were not always,
indeed were seldom, of the most refined nature, they were none the less
adapted to raise shouts of merriment in cabin and camp. What Sydney
Smith was at the banqueting board in the palatial saloon, such was
David Crockett at the campfire and in the log hut. If ever in want of
an illustrative anecdote he found no difficulty in manufacturing one.
His thoughtless kindness of heart and good nature were inexhaustible.
Those in want never appealed to him in vain. He would even go hungry
himself that he might feed others who were more hungry. He would,
without a moment's consideration, spend his last dollar to buy a
blanket for a shivering soldier, and, without taking any merit for the
deed, would never think of it again. He did it without reflection, as
he breathed.
Such was the David Crockett who, from the mere love of adventure, left
wife and children, in the awful solitude of the wilderness, to follow
General Jackson in a march to Pensacola. He seems fully to have
understood the character of the General, his merits and his defects.
The main body of the army, consisting of a little more than two
thousand men, had already commenced its march, when Crockett repaired
to a rendezvous, in the northern frontiers of Alabama, where another
company was being formed, under Major Russel, soon to follow. The
company numbered one hundred and thirty men, and commenced its march.
They forded the Tennessee River at Muscle Shoals, and marched south
unmolested, through the heart of the Choctaw and Chickasaw nations, and
pressed rapidly forward two or three hundred miles, until they reached
the junction of the Tombeckbee and Alabama rivers, in the southern
section of the State. The main army was now but two days' march before
them. The troops, thus far, had been mounted, finding sufficient
grazing for their horses by the way. But learning that there was no
forage to be found between there and Pensacola, they left their animals
behind them, under a sufficient guard, at a place called Cut-off, and
set out for the rest of the march, a distance of about eighty miles, on
foot. The slight protective works they threw up here, they called Fort
Stoddart.
These light troops, hardy men of iron nerves, accomplished the distance
in about two days. On the evening of the second day, they reached an
eminence but a short distance out from Pensacola, where they found the
army encamped. Not a little to Crockett's disappointment, he learned
that Pensacola was already captured. Thus he lost his chance of having
"a small taste of British fighting."
The British and Spaniards had obtained intelligence of Jackson's
approach, and had made every preparation to drive him back. The forts
were strongly garrisoned, and all the principal streets of the little
Spanish city were barricaded. Several British war-vessels were anchored
in the bay, and so placed as to command with their guns the principal
entrance to the town. Jackson, who had invaded the Spanish province
unsanctioned by the Government, was anxious to impress upon the Spanish
authorities that the measure had been reluctantly adopted, on his own
authority, as a military necessity; that he had no disposition to
violate their neutral rights; but that it was indispensable that the
British should be dislodged and driven away.
The pride of the Spaniard was roused, and there was no friendly
response to this appeal. But the Spanish garrison was small, and,
united with the English fleet, could present no effectual opposition to
the three thousand men under such a lion-hearted leader as General
Jackson. On the 7th of January the General opened fire upon the foe.
The conflict was short. The Spaniards were compelled to surrender their
works. The British fled to the ships. The guns were turned upon them.
They spread sail and disappeared. Jackson was severely censured, at the
time, for invading the territory of a neutral power. The final verdict
of his countrymen has been decidedly in his favor.
It was supposed that the British would move for the attack of Mobile.
This place then consisted of a settlement of but about one hundred and
fifty houses. General Jackson, with about two thousand men, marched
rapidly for its defence. A few small, broken bands of hostile, yet
despairing Creeks, fled back from Florida into the wilds of Alabama. A
detachment of nearly a thousand men, under Major Russell, were sent in
pursuit of these fleas among the mountains. Crockett made part of this
expedition. The pursuing soldiers directed their steps northwest about
a hundred miles to Fort Montgomery, on the Alabama, just above its
confluence with the Tornbeckbee, about twelve miles above Fort
Stoddart. Not far from there was Fort Mimms, where the awful massacre
had taken place which opened the Creek war.
There were many cattle grazing in the vicinity of the fort at the time
of the massacre, which belonged to the garrison. These animals were now
running wild. A thousand hungry men gave them chase. The fatal bullet
soon laid them all low, and there was great feasting and hilarity in
the camp. The carouse was much promoted by the arrival that evening of
a large barge, which had sailed up the Alabama River from Mobile, with
sugar, coffee, and,--best of all, as the soldiers said--worst of all,
as humanity cries,--with a large amount of intoxicating liquors.
The scene presented that night was wild and picturesque in the extreme.
The horses of the army were scattered about over the plain grazing upon
the rich herbage. There was wood in abundance near, and the camp-fires
for a thousand men threw up their forked flames, illumining the whole
region with almost the light of day. The white tents of the officers,
the varied groups of the soldiers, running here and there, in all
possible attitudes, the cooking and feasting, often whole quarters of
beef roasting on enormous spits before the vast fires, afforded a
spectacle such as is rarely seen.
One picture instantly arrested the eye of every beholder. There were
one hundred and eighty-six friendly Chickasaw and Choctaw Indians, who
had enlisted in the army. They formed a band by themselves under their
own chiefs. They were all nearly naked, gorgeously painted, and
decorated with the very brilliant attire of the warrior, with
crimson-colored plumes, and moccasins and leggins richly fringed, and
dyed in bright and strongly contrasting hues. These savages were in the
enjoyment of their greatest delight, drinking to frenzy, and performing
their most convulsive dances, around the flaming fires.
In addition to this spectacle which met the eye, there were sounds of
revelry which fell almost appallingly upon the ear. The wide expanse
reverberated with bacchanal songs, and drunken shouts, and frenzied
war-whoops. These were all blended in an inextricable clamor. With the
unrefined eminently, and in a considerable degree with the most
refined, noise is one of the essential elements of festivity. A
thousand men were making all the noise they could in this midnight
revel. Probably never before, since the dawn of creation, had the banks
of the Alabama echoed with such a clamor as in this great carouse,
which had so suddenly burst forth from the silence of the almost
uninhabited wilderness.
This is the poetry of war. This it is which lures so many from the
tameness of ordinary life to the ranks of the army. In such scenes,
Crockett, bursting with fun, the incarnation of wit and good nature,
was in his element. Here he was chief. All did him homage. His pride
was gratified by his distinction. Life in his lonely hut, with wife and
children, seemed, in comparison, too spiritless to be endured.
The Alabama here runs nearly west. The army was on the south side of
the river. The next day the Indians asked permission to cross to the
northern bank on an exploring expedition. Consent was given; but Major
Russel decided to go with them, taking a company of sixteen men, of
whom Crockett was one. They crossed the river and encamped upon the
other side, seeing no foe and encountering no alarm. They soon came to
a spot where the winding river, overflowing its banks, spread over a
wide extent of the flat country. It was about a mile and a half across
this inundated meadow. To journey around it would require a march of
many miles. They waded the meadow. The water was very cold, often up to
their armpits, and they stumbled over the rough ground. This was not
the poetry of war. But still there is a certain degree of civilization
in which the monotony of life is relieved by such adventures.
When they reached the other side they built large fires, and warmed and
dried themselves. They were in search of a few fugitive Indian
warriors, who, fleeing from Pensacola, had scattered themselves over a
wilderness many hundred square miles in extent. This pursuit of them,
by a thousand soldiers, seems now very foolish. But it is hardly safe
for us, seated by our quiet firesides, and with but a limited knowledge
of the circumstances, to pass judgment upon the measure.
The exploring party consisted, as we have mentioned, of nearly two
hundred Indians, and sixteen white men. They advanced very cautiously.
Two scouts were kept some distance in the advance, two on the side
nearest the river, and five on their right. In this way they had moved
along about six miles, when the two spies in front came rushing
breathlessly back, with the tidings that they had discovered a camp of
Creek Indians. They halted for a few moments while all examined their
guns and their priming and prepared for battle.
The Indians went through certain religious ceremonies, and getting out
their war-paint, colored their bodies anew. They then came to Major
Russell, and told him that, as he was to lead them in the battle, he
must be painted too. He humored them, and was painted in the most
approved style of an Indian warrior. The plan of battle was arranged to
strike the Indian camp by surprise, when they were utterly unprepared
for any resistance. The white men were cautiously to proceed in the
advance, and pour in a deadly fire to kill as many as possible. The
Indians were then, taking advantage of the panic, to rush in with
tomahawk and scalping-knife, and finish the scene according to their
style of battle, which spared neither women nor children. It is not
pleasant to record such a measure. They crept along, concealed by the
forest, and guided by the sound of pounding, till they caught sight of
the camp. A little to their chagrin they found that it consisted of two
peaceful wigwams, where there was a man, a woman, and several children.
The wigwams were also on an island of the river, which could not be
approached without boats. There could not be much glory won by an army
of two hundred men routing such a party and destroying their home.
There was also nothing to indicate that these Indians had even any
unfriendly feelings. The man and woman were employed in bruising what
was called brier root, which they had dug from the forest, for food. It
seems that this was the principal subsistence used by the Indians in
that vicinity.
While the soldiers were deliberating what next to do, they heard a gun
fired in the direction of the scouts, at some distance on the right,
followed by a single shrill war-whoop. This satisfied them that if the
scouts had met with a foe, it was indeed war on a small scale. There
seemed no need for any special caution. They all broke and ran toward
the spot from which the sounds came. They soon met two of the spies,
who told the following not very creditable story, but one highly
characteristic of the times.
As they were creeping along through the forest, they found two Indians,
who they said were Creeks, out hunting. As they were approaching each
other, it so happened that there was a dense cluster of bushes between
them, so that they were within a few feet of meeting before either
party was discovered. The two spies were Choctaws. They advanced
directly to the Indians, and addressed them in the most friendly
manner; stating that they had belonged to General Jackson's army, but
had escaped, and were on their way home. They shook hands, kindled a
fire, and sat down and smoked in apparent perfect cordiality.
One of the Creeks had a gun. The other had only a bow and arrows. After
this friendly interview, they rose and took leave of each other, each
going in opposite directions. As soon as their backs were turned, and
they were but a few feet from each other, one of the Choctaws turned
around and shot the unsuspecting Creek who had the gun. He fell dead,
without a groan. The other Creek attempted to escape, while the other
Choctaw snapped his gun at him repeatedly, but it missed fire. They
then pursued him, overtook him, knocked him down with the butt of their
guns, and battered his head until he also was motionless in death. One
of the Choctaws, in his frenzied blows, broke the stock of his rifle.
They then fired off the gun of the Creek who was killed, and one of
them uttered the war-whoop which was heard by the rest of the party.
These two savages drew their scalping-knives and cut off the heads of
both their victims. As the whole body came rushing up, they found the
gory corpses of the slain, with their dissevered heads near by. Each
Indian had a war-club. With these massive weapons each savage, in his
turn, gave the mutilated heads a severe blow. When they had all
performed this barbaric deed, Crockett, whose peculiar type of good
nature led him not only to desire to please the savages, but also to
know what would please them, seized a war-club, and, in his turn, smote
with all his strength the mangled, blood-stained heads. The Indians
were quite delighted. They gathered around him with very expressive
grunts of satisfaction, and patting him upon the back, exclaimed, "Good
warrior! Good warrior!"
The Indians then scalped the heads, and, leaving the bodies unburied,
the whole party entered a trail which led to the river, near the point
where the two wigwams were standing. As they followed the narrow path
they came upon the vestiges of a cruel and bloody tragedy. The
mouldering corpses of a Spaniard, his wife, and four children lay
scattered around, all scalped. Our hero Crockett, who had so valiantly
smitten the dissevered heads of the two Creeks who had been so
treacherously murdered, confesses that the revolting spectacle of the
whites, scalped and half devoured, caused him to shudder. He writes:
"I began to feel mighty ticklish along about this time; for I knowed if
there was no danger then, there had been, and I felt exactly like there
still was."
The white soldiers, leading the Indians, continued their course until
they reached the river. Following it down, they came opposite the point
where the wigwams stood upon the island. The two Indian hunters who had
been killed had gone out from this peaceful little encampment. Several
Indian children were playing around, and the man and woman whom they
had before seen were still beating their roots. Another Indian woman
was also there seen. These peaceful families had no conception of the
disaster which had befallen their companions who were hunting in the
woods. Even if they had heard the report of the rifles, they could only
have supposed that it was from the guns of the hunters firing at game.
The evening twilight was fading away. The whole party was concealed in
a dense canebrake which fringed the stream. Two of the Indians were
sent forward as a decoy--a shameful decoy--to lure into the hands of
two hundred warriors an unarmed man, two women, and eight or ten
children. The Indians picked out some of their best marksmen and hid
them behind trees and logs near the river. They were to shoot down the
Indians whom others should lure to cross the stream.
The creek which separated the island from the mainland was deep, but
not so wide but that persons without much difficulty could make
themselves heard across it. Two of the Indians went down to the
river-side, and hailed those at the wigwams, asking them to send a
canoe across to take them over. An Indian woman came down to the bank
and informed them that the canoe was on their side, that two hunters
had crossed the creek that morning, and had not yet returned. These
were the two men who had been so inhumanly murdered. Immediate search
was made for the canoe, and it was found a little above the spot where
the men were hiding. It was a very large buoyant birch canoe,
constructed for the transportation of a numerous household, with all
their goods, and such game as they might take.
This they loaded with warriors to the water's edge, and they began
vigorously to paddle over to the island. When the one solitary Indian
man there saw this formidable array approaching he fled into the woods.
The warriors landed, and captured the two women and the little
children, ten in number, and conveyed their prisoners, with the plunder
of the wigwams, back across the creek to their own encampment. This was
not a very brilliant achievement to be accomplished by an army of two
hundred warriors aided by a detachment of sixteen white men under Major
Russel. What finally became of these captives we know not. It is
gratifying to be informed by David Crockett that they did not kill
either the squaws or the pappooses.
The company then marched through the silent wilderness, a distance of
about thirty miles east, to the Conecuh River. This stream, in its
picturesque windings through a region where even the Indian seldom
roved, flowed into the Scambia, the principal river which pours its
floods, swollen by many tributaries, into Pensacola Bay. It was several
miles above the point where the detachment struck the river that the
Indian encampment, to which the two murdered men had alluded, was
located. But the provisions of the party were exhausted. There was
scarcely any game to be found. Major Russel did not deem it prudent to
march to the attack of the encampment, until he had obtained a fresh
supply of provisions. The main body of the army, which had remained in
Florida, moving slowly about, without any very definite object, waiting
for something to turn up was then upon the banks of the Scambia.
Colonel Blue was in command.
David Crockett was ordered to take a light birch canoe, and two men,
one a friendly Creek Indian, and paddle down the stream about twenty
miles to the main camp. Here he was to inform Colonel Blue of Major
Russel's intention to ascend the Conecuh to attack the Creeks, and to
request the Colonel immediately to dispatch some boats up the river
with the needful supplies.
It was a romantic adventure descending in the darkness that wild and
lonely stream, winding through the dense forest of wonderful exuberance
of vegetation. In the early evening he set out. The night proved very
dark. The river, swollen by recent rains, overflowed its banks and
spread far and wide over the low bottoms. The river was extremely
crooked, and it was with great difficulty that they could keep the
channel. But the instinct of the Indian guide led them safely along,
through overhanging boughs and forest glooms, until, a little before
midnight, they reached the camp. There was no time to be lost. Major
Russel was anxious to have the supplies that very night dispatched to
him, lest the Indians should hear of their danger and should escape.
But Colonel Blue did not approve of the expedition. There was no
evidence that the Indian encampment consisted of anything more than
half a dozen wigwams, where a few inoffensive savages, with their wives
and children, were eking out a half-starved existence by hunting,
fishing, and digging up roots from the forest. It did not seem wise to
send an army of two hundred and sixteen men to carry desolation and woe
to such humble homes. Crockett was ordered to return with this message
to the Major. Military discipline, then and there, was not very rigid.
He hired another man to carry back the unwelcome answer in his place.
In the light canoe the three men rapidly ascended the sluggish stream.
Just as the sun was rising over the forest, they reached the camp of
Major Russell. The detachment then immediately commenced its march down
the River Scambia, and joined the main body at a point called Miller's
Landing. Here learning that some fugitive Indians were on the eastern
side of the stream, a mounted party was sent across, swimming their
horses, and several Indians were hunted down and shot.
Soon after this, the whole party, numbering nearly twelve hundred in
all, commenced a toilsome march of about two or three hundred miles
across the State to the Chattahoochee River, which constitutes the
boundary-line between Southern Alabama and Georgia. Their route led
through pathless wilds. No provisions, of any importance, could be
found by the way. They therefore took with them rations for
twenty-eight days. But their progress was far more slow and toilsome
than they had anticipated. Dense forests were to be threaded, where it
was necessary for them to cut their way through almost tropical
entanglement of vegetation. Deep and broad marshes were to be waded,
where the horses sank almost to their saddle-girths. There were rivers
to be crossed, which could only be forded by ascending the banks
through weary leagues of wilderness.
Thus, when twenty-eight days had passed, and their provisions were
nearly expended, though they had for some time been put on short
allowance, they found that they had accomplished but three-quarters of
their journey. Actual starvation threatened them. But twice in nineteen
days did Crockett Taste of any bread. Despondency spread its gloom over
the half-famished army. Still they toiled along, almost hopeless, with
tottering footsteps. War may have its excitements and its charms. But
such a march as this, of woe-begone, emaciate, skeleton bands, is not
to be counted as among war's pomps and glories.
One evening, in the deepening twilight, when they had been out
thirty-four days, the Indian scouts, ever sent in advance, came into
camp with the announcement, that at the distance of but a few hours'
march before them, the Chattahoochee River was to be found, with a
large Indian village upon its banks. We know not what reason there was
to suppose that the Indians inhabiting this remote village were
hostile. But as the American officers decided immediately upon
attacking them, we ought to suppose that they, on the ground, had
sufficient reason to justify this course.
The army was immediately put in motion. The rifles were loaded and
primed, and the flints carefully examined, that they might not fall
into ambush unprepared. The sun was just rising as they cautiously
approached the doomed village. There was a smooth green meadow a few
rods in width on the western bank of the river, skirted by the
boundless forest. The Indian wigwams and lodges, of varied structure,
were clustered together on this treeless, grassy plain, in much
picturesque beauty. The Indians had apparently not been apprised of the
approach of the terrible tempest of war about to descend upon them.
Apparently, at that early hour, they were soundly asleep. Not a man,
woman, or child was to be seen.
Silently, screened by thick woods, the army formed in line of battle.
The two hundred Indian warriors, rifle in hand and tomahawk at belt,
stealthily took their position. The white men took theirs. At a given
signal, the war-whoop burst from the lips of the savages, and the wild
halloo of the backwoodsmen reverberated through the forest, as both
parties rushed forward in the impetuous charge. "We were all so
furious," writes Crockett, "that even the certainty of a pretty hard
fight could not have restrained us."
But to the intense mortification of these valiant men, not a single
living being was to be found as food for bullet or tomahawk. The huts
were all deserted, and despoiled of every article of any value. There
was not a skin, or an unpicked bone, or a kernel of corn left behind.
The Indians had watched the march of the foe, and, with their wives and
little ones, had retired to regions where the famishing army could not
follow them.
CHAPTER VI.
The Camp and the Cabin.
Deplorable Condition of the Army.--Its wanderings.--Crockett's
Benevolence.--Cruel Treatment of the Indians.--A Gleam of Good
Luck.--The Joyful Feast.--Crockett's Trade with the Indian.--Visit to
the Old Battlefield.--Bold Adventure of Crockett.--His Arrival
Home.--Death of his Wife.--Second Marriage.--Restlessness.--Exploring
Tour.--Wild Adventures.--Dangerous Sickness.--Removal to the West.--His
New Home.
The army, far away in the wilds of Southern Alabama, on the banks of
the almost unknown Chattahoochee, without provisions, and with leagues
of unexplored wilderness around, found itself in truly a deplorable
condition. The soldiers had hoped to find, in the Indian village,
stores of beans and corn, and quantities of preserved game. In the
impotence of their disappointment they applied the torch, and laid the
little village in ashes.
A council was held, and it was deemed best to divide their forces.
Major Childs took one-half of the army and retraced their steps
westward, directing their course toward Baton Rouge, where they hoped
to find General Jackson with a portion of the army with which he was
returning from New Orleans. The other division, under Major Russel,
pressed forward, as rapidly as possible, nearly north, aiming for Fort
Decatur, on the Tallapoosa River, where they expected to find shelter
and provisions. Crockett accompanied Major Russel's party. Indian
sagacity was now in great requisition. The friendly savages led the way
through scenes of difficulty and entanglement where, but for their aid,
the troops might all have perished. So great was the destitution of
food that the soldiers were permitted to stray, almost at pleasure, on
either side of the line of march. Happy was the man who could shoot a
raccoon or a squirrel, or even the smallest bird. Implicit confidence
was placed in the guidance of the friendly Indians, and the army
followed in single file, along the narrow trail which the Indians trod
before them.
Crockett, in this march, had acquired so much the confidence of the
officers that he seems to have enjoyed quite unlimited license. He went
where he pleased and did what he would. Almost invariably at night,
keeping pace with the army, he would bring in some small game, a bird
or a squirrel, and frequently several of these puny animals. It was a
rule, when night came, for all the hunters to throw down what they had
killed in one pile. This was then divided among the messes as equitably
as possible.
One night, Crockett returned empty-handed. He had killed nothing, and
he was very hungry. But there was a sick man in his mess, who was
suffering far more than he. Crockett, with his invariable unselfishness
and generosity, forgot his own hunger in his solicitude for his sick
comrade. He went to the fire of Captain Cowen, who was commandant of
the company to which Crockett belonged, and told him his story. Captain
Cowen was broiling, for his supper, the gizzard of a turkey. He told
Crockett that the turkey was all that had fallen to the share of his
company that night, and that the bird had already been divided, in very
small fragments, among the sick. There was nothing left for Crockett's
friend.
On this march the army was divided into messes of eight or ten men, who
cooked and ate their food together. This led Crockett to decide that he
and his mess would separate themselves from the rest of the army, and
make a small and independent band. The Indian scouts, well armed and
very wary, took the lead. They kept several miles in advance of the
main body of the troops, that they might give timely warning should
they encounter any danger. Crockett and his mess kept close after them,
following their trail, and leaving the army one or two miles behind.
One day the scouts came across nine Indians. We are not informed
whether they were friends or enemies, whether they were hunters or
warriors, whether they were men, women, or children, whether they were
in their wigwams or wandering through the forest, whether they were all
together or were found separately: we are simply told that they were
all shot down. The circumstances of the case are such, that the
probabilities are very strong that they were shot as a wolf or a bear
would be shot, at sight, without asking any questions. The next day the
scouts found a frail encampment where there were three Indians. They
shot them all.
The sufferings of the army, as it toiled along through these vast
realms of unknown rivers and forest glooms, and marshes and
wide-spread, flower-bespangled prairies, became more and more severe.
Game was very scarce. For three days, Crockett's party killed barely
enough to sustain life. He writes:
"At last we all began to get nearly ready to give up the ghost, and lie
down and die, for we had no prospect of provision, and we knowed we
couldn't go much farther without it."
While in this condition they came upon one of those wide and beautiful
prairies which frequently embellish the landscape of the South and the
West This plain was about six miles in width, smooth as a floor, and
waving with tall grass and the most brilliantly colored flowers. It was
bordered with a forest of luxuriant growth, but not a tree dotted its
surface. They came upon a trail leading through the tall, thick grass.
Crockett's practised eye saw at once that it was not a trail made by
human foot-steps, but the narrow path along which deer strolled and
turkeys hobbled in their movement across the field from forest to
forest.
Following this trail, they soon came to a creek of sluggish water. The
lowlands on each side were waving with a rank growth of wild rye,
presenting a very green and beautiful aspect. The men were all mounted,
as indeed was nearly the whole army. By grazing and browsing, the
horses, as they moved slowly along at a foot-pace, kept in comfortable
flesh. This rye-field presented the most admirable pasturage for the
horses. Crockett and his comrades dismounted, and turned the animals
loose. There was no danger of their straying far in so fat a field.
Crockett and another man, Vanzant by name, leaving the horses to feed,
pushed across the plain to the forest, in search of some food for
themselves They wandered for some time, and found nothing. At length,
Crockett espied a squirrel on the limb of a tall tree. He shot at the
animal and wounded it but it succeeded in creeping into a small hole in
the tree, thirty feet fr
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