Crockett of Tennessee Read online

  For two days he readied himself. Out in the woods, far from public view, he rehearsed his speech to her, from the gestures to the inflections, even the light laugh he figured to use at the close of several very clever jokes he had come up with.

  She was walking at the edge of the woods beyond the stable when he approached her. The time had come; it was do or die. Struggling with a tendency to tremble, he approached her, said his hello, and launched into his talk.

  Amy watched him, and listened closely, and was polite enough not to smile when he finally reached the culmination of his presentation: he felt deep affection for her. He wished, with her permission, to have the privilege of courting her.

  “Mr. Crockett,” she said, “I’m very happy you are so pleased with me. My heart is warmed. But the truth is, I’ve become engaged to be married to my cousin, Robert Canaday. It was a family decision, but I have agreed to it. So you can see my affections are already given to another.”

  David’s legs almost failed to hold him up. Robert Canaday! John Canaday’s own son … David had not had an inkling. He felt tremendously foolish, and could no longer meet her gaze.

  “I … I wish you well,” he said, eyes on his feet.

  “Thank you, and … well, thank you.”

  Maybe she smiled. David never knew. He had already turned and slunk away, feeling the unequaled pain of a heart that had been laid bare before it was trampled.

  Chapter 22

  For a long time David had wanted new clothing, but now that he had purchased some, the garments felt stiff and scratchy and he couldn’t get comfortable in them, no matter how he twisted and tugged. He was engaged in such a dance as he stood before the front door of a cabin about a mile and half away from John Canaday’s place, awaiting an answer to his knock.

  The door opened, and a man with a strong resemblance to John Canaday, both in features and manner of dress, stood looking back at David. This was Bowater Canaday, one of the old Quaker’s sons, and keeper of a small and informal school that operated in his home. He greeted David with a wide, close-lipped smile, and said, “Hello, my friend. I’ve been waiting for thee. Please come inside.”

  “Morning, Mr. Canaday.” David walked in, slipping off his slouch hat and resisting the urge to tug on his cuffs. “I’m grateful you’re willing to speak with me this morning.”

  Bowater had him sit down, and settled his own rather ample form on a stool in front of the visitor. “Now, I understand it is the desire for some schooling that has brought thee here.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I’m in dire need of an education. I’m willing to work for it. I’m a good worker.”

  “Indeed. My father has been pleased with thee, and has recommended thee to me.”

  They talked for a time about the motives behind David’s request, though David wasn’t fully open on the subject. He declared that he was convinced a man couldn’t advance in the world without knowledge, and that he had come to believe it was a “God-ordained duty” for every male who could to fill his mind with “as much truth and such as it will hold.” He threw that in to put a religious tone to his request, knowing Bowater would like that. Indeed he did seem pleased with such talk, never guessing that David’s motives were in fact a touch less lofty than he was letting on.

  The truth was that Amy Sumner’s “jilting” of him, as he perceived it, had led to much introspection about his flaws. Why hadn’t she accepted him? Perhaps it was his poverty, or his poor clothing, or the fact he wasn’t a Quaker—but finally he decided the real problem was that he was just too ignorant for her. Females, he concluded, were attracted to men of learning, men with that confident air that comes from abundant knowledge. He could understand that. Men with fuller minds often had fuller purses. He had dwelled on such matters until the desire for learning had become overwhelming. The simple truth was, David Crockett wanted an education because he believed it would help him find a woman.

  Talk continued, and David was very gratified with the agreement finally reached. He would work for Bowater Canaday two days a week, and attend school four. In addition to teaching, Bowater would provide lodging and meals. David stood and shook hands with his new tutor, and left to go fetch his few belongings from John Canaday’s place.

  For the next several months David’s life was utterly different than anything he had known before. Bowater was a slow-moving but persistent teacher, and bit by bit David adjusted to the life of a student. He learned to write and read, and to do basic mathematics. This was not at all like Kitching’s school. Bowater was far more gentle of manner and patient. David was different too. This time he really wanted to learn, and discovered to his surprise that learning could actually be pleasant. As the weeks passed, he became increasingly proud and more sure of himself.

  Half a year went by speedily, and David neared the end of his education. By now he had learned about all he had anticipated learning, and felt ready to reenter the world at large. Women bore stronger on his mind than ever. He hadn’t fully forgotten Amy Sumner, though she was unavailable to him, but he had grown hopeful he could find someone else in her place.

  It was the final day of David Crockett’s education when John Canaday showed up at Bowater’s cabin, looking very solemn. With minimal greetings he walked up to David and said, “Come to my home at once, David. Persius Tarr has come to my doorstep. He has suffered much and is in a sorrowful condition, and much changed. To see thee, I think, would do him much good. Come, please. I fear greatly for his welfare.”

  “Changed,” it turned out, was too mild a word to describe the altered condition of Persius Tarr. David was struck by it as soon as he walked into the little gable room that had been his own sleeping place before he went off for education, and which now was given over to Persius. The face that looked back into David’s was that of a person who had undergone an experience of life-altering horror. All that David knew about what had happened to Persius was what John Canaday had told him on the way here, and what his eyes now told him: Persius Tarr had been hurt, and seemingly shaken to his heart.

  “Hello, David,” Persius said softly. “I’m hurt, you can see.” He threw back the covers and showed a bandaged arm and side. “I’m hoping my arm won’t go putrid and have to be cut off. Mr. Canaday says he believes I’ll be able to keep it.”

  “What happened to you, Persius?”

  “Some men tried to kill me. They almost did.”

  “The violence of men is a stench in the nostrils of God,” Canaday said.

  “Is that how you got hurt?”

  “Aye.”

  “He has already told me part of the tale,” Canaday said. “It is worthy of the hearing. My friend, I’ll tell it for thee, if such would give thee a rest.”

  “I can tell it,” Persius said.

  David listened as Persius unfolded his story. He was weary and in pain; often he would have to stop for a few moments before going on. Canaday was right. Persius’s tale was worthy of the hearing.

  Here are the details of his story:

  After the incident with Crider Cummings and his band, Persius had decided that the more distance he could put between himself and the immediate area, the better. He migrated north, across Clinch Mountain and into the wild country along that river. There were caves in the hills. Persius found them, and in a small, snug one a quarter of the way up a mountainside, sheltered from the weather and hidden from view, he made a temporary home. When the winter came, he warmed himself by a fire kept almost continually burning at the cave’s mouth. He ate fish gigged, trapped, or hooked from the river; rabbits snared in their runs; and whatever small game he could capture beneath deadfall traps.

  Lacking a rifle, he resorted to an old skill taught to him by his father and made himself a crossbow from black haw and poplar; a bowstring of long threads from his clothing, woven into a strong, thin cord; and arrows from straight-grained hickory. The latter he tipped with sharpened flints, some of which he chipped out himself, others found in finished form, the work of a
ncient Indians who had hunted the same mountains long before the Cherokees came, long before the Crusaders journeyed to liberate Jerusalem from the Moslems, even long before Mary gave birth in a Bethlehem stable. The crossbow Persius made was crude but deadly; many a frontiersman had used this ancient weapon to bring in game when powder or lead was in short supply.

  It was a lonely existence, but Persius enjoyed it. In the company of people, he either found trouble or it found him. Alone on his ridge high above the Clinch River, he was at peace. At times he actually felt grateful for the incident that had driven him out of Jefferson County and into this reclusive life. There were occasional flashes of something like an underconsciousness, a hazy, half-remembered awareness of a life like this in his past … but it couldn’t be his past. He had never lived like this before. He could only suppose that some ghost-memory resident in his blood was being stirred to life by this solitary existence. He was remembering not his own past, but in some unexplainable way, the past of long-gone ancestors who had struggled for sustenance in a raw, primitive world.

  His peace ended on a day that he had believed would bring him good fortune. Hunting several miles away from his cave of residence, operating out of a temporary camp, he wandered along the river in the waning afternoon. He had spotted a mussel near the water’s edge, and inside it he found a gleaming, bluish freshwater pearl. It seemed to him an omen of good fortune if ever he had seen one. Few mussels actually contained pearls. Finding one surely indicated that today was a day of luck.

  When Persius returned to his camp, examining his pearl and not being as observant as he normally would, he discovered to his shock that his privacy had been invaded. Two men were seated by his fire, hunters, from the look of them, rifles across their knees and smiles on their faces. Each resembled the other, though one was quite a bit older. Father and son, Persius guessed.

  “Howdy,” the older one said.

  “Howdy.”

  “Crossbow, eh? I ain’t seen one of them since my grandpap was yet living.”

  “Where’d you come from?” Persius asked. He eyed their rifles and wished he had nocked an arrow into the crossbow before coming back into camp.

  “We was on up the river a bit. Doing a bit of hunting, you know. We smelled your smoke last night. Knew there was somebody hereabouts.” He paused. “Never expected to find us an Injun.”

  Nothing changed in Persius’s face, though he detected an ominous tone in the man’s voice. “I’m not an Injun.”

  “You surely do look it. Don’t you think he looks it, Felix?”

  “I ain’t an Injun.”

  “Why, it wouldn’t make no difference if you was!” the younger one said. “Pa and me, we’ll sit down and eat with darkies of any color. We ain’t proud.”

  To encounter hunters, trappers, or travelers in the forest wasn’t particularly uncommon, especially given the steadily growing population. The custom in such chance meetings was to be open and friendly, to share what fare one might have. Persius knew that, but something in him balked. These men were disturbing; he wished they would go their way.

  But the custom had to be followed, or he would be asking for trouble. “I’m glad to see you,” Persius said. “I ain’t got much to share, just some venison, but what I have you’re welcome to.”

  The older one said, “That’s mighty friendly of you, Mister …”

  “Walker. Henry Walker.”

  “Henry Walker. That’s a fine-sounding name. My name is Marcus Jefferson. This handsome young man here is my son, Felix.”

  Persius brought out his food and divided it, noting that the Jeffersons appeared to have well-stuffed pouches. Food of their own? Probably so, but if it was, they made no move to share it.

  Persius devoured the meal nervously, hardly tasting his gulped bites. Afterward, pipes came out and the Jeffersons sat observing their uncomfortable host. Their small, vaguely mocking smiles, shaped around the stems of their pipes; their piercing, laughing eyes—all worked together to make Persius feel only more unsettled.

  “So where you been living, Mr. Walker?” Marcus Jefferson asked.

  “In a cave. Long way from here. I just wandered this way a-hunting.”

  “A cave! Well, we’ve been living in a cave ourselves. It ain’t far—why, you ought to come see it. Spend the night in there, you know. Looks like it could rain. We could return your hospitality like good folk should.”

  “I’ll get by. I don’t mind a little rain. Thank you, though.”

  “Come with us. Take a look at our cave. We fixed it up fine as a house. I give you promise you ain’t never seen so fine a cave as ours is!”

  Persius had no desire to go, but the Jeffersons pressed him, and he began to grow afraid that continuing to turn them down might anger them. Beneath their veneer of friendliness was a threat that he could all but smell. And to his displeasure, Felix Jefferson was right about the coming of rain. The sky was full of clouds, and thunder began to rumble. There would be a storm before midnight, a major one, if Persius had to guess. It became harder and harder to find pretexts for resisting the Jeffersons’ invitation, and at last Persius reluctantly gave in.

  They walked through the darkness for less than a mile, until they reached a tall bluff overlooking the wide river below. The elder Jefferson led the others down a narrow path and edged out into a ledge against the edge of the cliff. A few yards out it widened greatly, and the dark mouth of a cavern opened back into the hillside.

  “Here it is. Fine cave, eh?”

  Persius mumbled heartless agreement. Meanwhile, the younger Jefferson knelt and struck a spark onto punk, then started a small fire. The older man went to the side of the cave’s mouth and, out of a hole, pulled a pine torch made from long splinters of pine heart tied together. He lit the torch in the fire, and when it was blazing brightly, grinned at Persius.

  “We always keep a good supply of pine torches made up. Come on in. I’ll show you our place here.”

  Caution reared in Persius like a frightened horse. He knew something was amiss. He couldn’t go on pretending otherwise. “No. I won’t go in there.”

  “What? Ha! There’s naught to be worried about. Just a cave, that’s all. Let me show you where we live.”

  “No. I’m obliged, but I’m going now.”

  Jefferson stripped away the pleasant expression he had worn like a mask. “No, redskin. No you ain’t.”

  Then Persius saw a flash of fire and felt a jolt of hot pain in the back of his head. The younger one had worked his way behind him, unseen. Persius went down, mind spinning, skull throbbing with pain. He felt hands grasp him, and he was dragged into the cavern, the light of the pine torch playing against an ever-rising ceiling. Father and son were talking in voices devoid of their prior friendliness, calling him Indian, cursing him as Indian, declaring they would rid the world of him as Indian. He tried to struggle and could not.

  “In you go, you red coon,” the old man’s voice said in his ear. “You just found your way to what my dear departed old pappy liked to call Injun hell.”

  He went up, out—no hands grasping him now. He spun and turned in the air, falling into blackness. Hands flailing, he screamed, and then he struck, back downward, on rock. His breath was knocked from him, and pain tore through his side and arm.

  The yellow light above him arced out and down. They had dropped the torch into the same pit they had just thrown him into. He knew why. They wanted to see him down there, to enjoy the results of their treachery. He heard their voices but could not understand them. One of them laughed.

  Groaning, he rolled onto his side. The torch still burned, several feet away from him, and its light revealed heaps of shattered, yellowing bones, empty rib cages like upturned grasping fingers, and skulls with mouths open as if in silent screams.

  Chapter 23

  At this point in the story, Persius stopped speaking for a few moments.

  David said, “Them bones … they were bones of animals?”

  “No
,” Persius answered. “Not animals. Men.”

  “God!”

  John Canaday had not heard this part of the story before. He shuddered visibly. “How did they come to be there?”

  “They was murdered. Injuns, you see.”

  “Murdered by Injuns?” David asked.

  “No, no. The bones were bones of Injuns, murdered by the two who had throwed me down there, and by the old one’s father before him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “They told me so. Hollered it down at me from above … mocking at me. Telling me how they had killed more redskins than they could count, how Injuns had died in that cave for nigh to thirty years. And how fine it would be for me to bleed or starve to death down there amongst the remains of my own kind.”

  “What? They took thee for an Indian?” Canaday interjected.

  “Yes. They ain’t the first who have. There’s been others before them. You can see I’m dark of skin and hair, and have a countenance a mite like a redskin. It’s been a bane to me all my days.”

  Canaday gave Persius an evaluation. “There is more than a mite of resemblance. Is there Indian blood in thee, Persius?”

  Persius looked squarely into Canaday’s face. His eyes, hollow and sad throughout his recounting so far, now flashed hot with life. “No. I’m no Injun, not in any part. I’m a white man, through and through.”

  “I meant thee no offense.”

  David remembered the time years before when he had asked Persius a similar question and received an equally hostile response. Persius had always seemed unusually touchy about the subject of Indians.

  Canaday asked, “Could the scoundrels see thee down in the pit?”

  “Yes, at least a little. By the torchlight. I figured out right quick that I’d best sull where I fell, like I was hurt too bad to move, else they’d likely shoot me from above. So I flailed some with my arms and moaned out, cried out my back was busted and my legs wouldn’t move … and that give them a good laugh.”