Crockett of Tennessee Page 22

  “It is,” Polly said. She looked like she might cry in happiness at any moment.

  “I’ll send my brothers to the tavern to give word of the change,” David said. “Polly, this will put some delay in our plans.”

  “I don’t mind it.”

  “Then neither do I.”

  David spoke to his brothers, explaining the situation, and they set off at once to carry the news back to those waiting at the tavern. Meanwhile, David and Polly dismounted and went into the house with the Finleys.

  David marveled at this turn of events, and was grateful. He sensed that Jean Finley still bore her worries in secret, but it really seemed she was changing her attitude. And far better it was to enter a marriage with good feelings surrounding it rather than open bitterness. It gave him a sense of increased hope for the future, and anticipation of a happy life with the woman he adored more than anything else in the world.

  They were married beneath the open sky. David could not recall a finer moment in his life than the one that made Polly his wife. Their first night together was spent in the Finley house, with little privacy—but they had expected none in any case. It was the frontier custom to send newlyweds to their marriage bed with much joking and banter and attempts to rouse embarrassment. David and Polly made the best of it, and waited until at last the rest of the household was asleep before turning to one another and entering the intimate marital embrace both had eagerly awaited.

  The next day they and the entire wedding party rode on to the Crockett tavern, there to celebrate further. Awaiting them were yet more well-wishers—such were abundant at weddings, if for no other reason than plenty of free food and special “fixings” on hand.

  Polly sat happily in the light of torches, still wearing the blue homespun dress she had sewn herself for the wedding. The gaiety and revelry all around made a happy backdrop for her thoughts of the future. She considered her new name: Polly Crockett. To her it had a musical ring. She loved her new husband even more intensely than she had before. They were poor, true enough, but what did that matter? The future lay wide open and bright.

  At the moment, David was seated over near the door, distracted by a gaggle of boys while little Mahlon Gilbreath sneaked a twist of tobacco toward David’s cup of coffee. Polly almost yelled a warning—coffee was a rare treat that David greatly loved—but held her peace. Let the boys have their joke. This was a time for good humor and fun. And when David lifted the cup to his lips and found the tobacco thrusting up out of it, she laughed right along with the boys. David put on an appropriately entertaining show of exaggerated reaction, then laughed as well.

  The memory of the celebration lingered in Polly’s mind long after it was past. Particularly gratifying was the way others continued to show their affection and support. Her mother surprised her by giving them two healthy cows with calves. And John Canaday showed up with an order for fifteen dollars worth of merchandise at a local store, to be filled in whatever way the new couple chose. Fifteen dollars went a long way, and Polly was thrilled to be able to outfit her new home with much more than she had anticipated owning so early on.

  But still the couple was poor. Unable to buy acreage, they rented land and a rather dark and dismal pine log cabin in the Finley’s Gap area, between Bay’s Mountain and the old Indian war trail, and within a few miles of David’s kin. The cabin was built of saddle-notched unhewn logs, chinked and daubed with mud, and had a single hipped chimney made of mud and sticks, protruding past a roof made of clapboards. The Crocketts’ cabin had only two rooms, a pair of doors leading to the outside, and—to Polly’s dissatisfaction—no windows at all. The oppressive interior darkness took much adjustment and often depressed Polly, who had grown up in cabins with many windows and much light, but she made the best of it. She passed much time spinning cloth. When the weather was warm, she moved the wheel outside.

  Rent was high and farm work difficult, but David and Polly persevered. Months passed, and with each one David promised better things very soon. But the better things never seemed to actually come about. Except for one good thing, the best that Polly could have asked: the family grew.

  Their firstborn came along in the summer of 1807. They named him John Wesley. William was born two years later, the Crocketts still living in the Finley’s Gap cabin and David still talking of finding a better place and a better life.

  William’s birth gave a clearer focus to his dreams, however. If the family continued to grow, the cabin would be far too small for comfort, and their meager earnings on high-rent farmland too insignificant to pay for their needs. David did other work as well, anything to make a dollar. He split fence rails for neighbors, bartered and traded, bought and sold anything of commercial value he could put his hands on. But he never made much money. There was no real danger of starvation; as long as there was room for crops and game in the forests, David could provide meat and vegetables for the table. But they wanted more than mere survival.

  David kept eyes, ears, and mind open for any promising news of other areas where a hardworking young couple might thrive. He explored as well, going down into Alabama in hopes of finding prospects there, but this came to nothing. At times the couple felt they were destined to live out their life on rented land, struggling against all odds to get ahead.

  Word began to drift in of new settlements along the Duck and Elk rivers, farther west. David and Polly took stock of their situation. They had two sons, an aging horse, a couple of two-year-old colts, and little else.

  Then came William Finley with a proposition. If David truly was interested in the new country he talked about so often, he would help him move there. David accepted the proposition at once. His parting with his family back at the tavern was difficult and tearful, particularly for his mother, and David was on the verge of backing out. But he couldn’t, not if he wanted the best for his own growing family, and so, with possessions laden on the colts and the old horse, the David Crocketts headed west. The year was 1811.

  They settled on Mulberry Creek, a tributary of the Elk River, in the county of Lincoln, on a hill known as Hungry Hill. In the first months the new location looked promising, particularly because game was abundant. David virtually hunted for his family’s living. As time went by, however, this became more challenging. There was small game aplenty, but the larger and more rewarding game, especially bears, were ever more scarce.

  So in 1813 the Crockett family said farewell to Hungry Hill and moved on to neighboring Franklin County, where they settled on Bean’s Creek, north of the beautiful Cumberland Mountains. About ten miles to the northeast was the town of Winchester, and elsewhere in the vicinity the communities of Maxwell and Old Salem. Here they moved into a hilltop home that David named Kentuck, in anticipation of a future move northward to Kentucky. This was a fine and beautiful place, watered by a good well.

  They were content. This, David felt certain, was the place where he and Polly would settle down for a long and increasingly successful and bountiful life together. They were young and strong. Nothing could stand in their way now. Nothing could go wrong. David was sure of it.

  Part 4

  THE CREEK WAR

  Chapter 29

  Crockett Cabin, Bean’s Creek Valley, September 1813

  Pups stirred and barked feverishly outside the cabin walls. Polly Crockett stood, laying aside the pair of trousers she was stitching together for her oldest son. Three times the pups had barked in as many minutes, and from the intensity of the barking, it was evident they did not herald David’s return from the day’s hunting. Now the hound, mother to the puppies, sent up a loud baying, confirming what Polly already suspected.

  Something was nearby the cabin, out in the dark. Something that alarmed the dogs. Maybe a bear or deer or ’possum. Even a human being. Indians? The thought came with a chill, but Polly didn’t put much stock in it. Even though there had been some minor raids and fights between Indians and settlers in past months, Polly had seen and heard of nothing more like that sin
ce settling here. Her intuition was that there was no significant Indian danger to Franklin County, despite rumblings in the south.

  But David and most of the other local men she knew seemed to think differently. Not that they had much reason to do so, as Polly saw it. When challenged, David could present no facts to prove that danger was immediate. Yet war talk was rampant. It seemed the local men had worked themselves into such a fever that only warfare would cool it. Polly found it maddening, especially when she thought about David’s participation in the near-hysteria. She had never seen him like he was now, ready to ride off at the slightest nudge to face the perceived “great savage threat,” when in his heart he knew as well as she that the threat probably wasn’t great in their area. If David really believed Indian danger was as immediate as he claimed, he wouldn’t go off on hunts that sometimes lasted two or three days.

  None of this mattered at the moment, however. Even if not an Indian, something was outside the cabin, stirring up the dogs. Polly went to the gun rack on the wall and hefted down the Brown Bess musket that John Crockett had given to David as a parting gift when they first moved away from Jefferson County. She checked the loading and priming, went to the window and peered out past the corner of the shutter.

  She remained there a long time, looking into the dark. The dogs settled, then stirred themselves into another frenzy. Polly closed and latched the shutter, then went to the boys’ beds to reassure herself they were all safe and asleep. Of course they were; even so, she needed the assurance of actually seeing them.

  Drawing a deep breath, she headed for the door, not at all certain it was wise to go out, but knowing she was going to do just that. Wondering and fearing was too much of a strain. Polly had little by way of a conscious, systematic philosophy of life, but one truth she had learned: a fear confronted and understood was almost always lessened. Left unfaced, it might be anything infinitely terrible; faced, it was at least reduced to being no more than it was.

  Carrying the musket, she went to the door and out. The dogs were still barking, noses pointed to the west and a dark alley that ran between a woodshed and the smokehouse. “Who’s there?” she demanded, raising the musket and aiming into the darkness. “Show yourself or I’ll shoot.”

  “No need to harm me, ma’am,” a male’s voice said. Polly jumped back a yard. She had known something was there; she had not known for certain that it was human.

  “Who’s that?” she said. “Show yourself!”

  The figure that emerged was that of a stranger. He had hair hanging to his shoulders, and a beard that covered much of his face. He wore a wide, floppy hat. From what she could see, she could not determine his age. His form was lean and straight, clad in a coat of buckskin, a pair of old wool trousers, and tall boots. Into the sash binding his coat around his narrow waist were thrust a pistol, belt axe, and knife. His right hand lightly gripped the barrel of his squirrel rifle, standing butt down on the ground.

  “Why are you hiding outside my house?” Polly demanded.

  “Mighty sorry, ma’am. I seen your husband wasn’t home, and I was a bit uncertain about coming on in without him there.”

  Polly felt more alarmed. He knew David wasn’t here—yet he had lingered. Or did he really know? Maybe he was asking in order to judge her reaction.

  “My husband is here,” she said. “He’s sleeping inside—been feeling puny, and I didn’t want to stir him out. You’d best get on away from here, right now.”

  “I’ll not harm you, ma’am. I come to see your husband.”

  She could tell he knew she was lying. “Now ain’t a good time for it,” she mumbled.

  “So I can see. I’ll come again. Tomorrow evening, maybe.” He touched his hat, nodding. “Evening to you, ma’am.” And then he turned and was gone.

  Polly went back into the cabin, rechecked all the latches and bars, and stood the musket in the corner so it could be reached more quickly, should she need it. Then she settled herself in a chair and took up her sewing again, determined to remain awake and alert until David was home.

  She was hardly aware of being picked up and carried to bed. For a moment she perceived herself a child again, being carried by her father. A familiar kiss touched her cheek, and a soft voice whispered its good-night into her ear. Not her father’s voice, but David’s. She smiled and reached out to him, half unconsciously.

  When morning came, she remembered the strange visitor of the prior evening, and told David about him.

  “You’re sure he wasn’t an Indian?”

  The question annoyed Polly, considering the general obsession with Indian fears at the moment. “You think I wouldn’t have said he was an Indian if he had been? He was dressed like a white man, and talked like one.”

  “What about his face?”

  “I couldn’t see it in the dark. He had a hat and beard.”

  “You didn’t know the voice?”

  “No. He didn’t volunteer no name, and I didn’t demand one. I wanted him gone, that’s all.”

  “It worries me. I don’t like men coming around when I’m away. I’ll stay close for a time. Them deer I killed today will be enough to keep us fed for a long spell.”

  “It was you he was asking after. I don’t know why.”

  “Likely he’ll show up again, if there’s any importance in why he came.”

  The next day David stayed close to home. He puzzled over the unknown man who had frightened Polly. It concerned him, even though there were a hundred possible reasons for someone to come calling, and if this visitor had come with bad intent toward his family, he would have taken his opportunity the prior night.

  About sunset the dogs set up a barking outside that drove David from his chair at the supper table and over to the rifle rack. He went outside, armed, and saw a man coming in from the west on a chestnut horse. Shielding his eyes against the swollen sun, David watched the limned figure approach.

  The rider came within thirty paces, dismounted and tethered the chestnut to a fence rail. “Hello, Davy Crockett.”

  “Hello, Persius Tarr. I wasn’t looking to see you this evening. How you been?”

  “As well as could be expected, considering.” He leaned over and spat a cud of tobacco out of his mouth, then pulled a twist from his pocket and the knife from his sash, and sliced off a fresh chew. He thrust the twist toward David, who accepted. The tobacco was hot and flavorful.

  “I met your wife,” Persius said. “Pretty as a kitten.”

  “Thank you. She is. Her name’s Mary, but she goes by Polly. A Finley before she married me. She told me you came, though she didn’t know you. I got something of a bone to pick with you about that, Persius. You not giving a name scared her. She didn’t know what you wanted.”

  “You think if I had told her my name she wouldn’t have been even more scared? She’s from Jefferson County, ain’t she? Everybody in Jefferson County knows Persius Tarr is the man who murdered Crider Cummings.”

  David had to admit that Persius had a point. Polly would have been horrified had she realized it was the infamous Persius Tarr she was facing off with. And David wondered if Persius had just indirectly confessed to the killing of Cummings, or if his comment had been waggish. He had used the word “murder” in a disturbingly casual way.

  The question would have to be asked … but not now. Cordiality required other things first.

  “Polly’s setting the table for supper right now,” David said. “There’s pan-fried fish, corn bread, beans, sweet taters—”

  “You don’t need to say no more,” Persius said. “I accept. I’m as starved as a lost dog. Besides, I want to meet your wife and family proper.”

  “Come on in,” David said. “Polly will be happy to have a guest.”

  The truth was, David really doubted that Polly would be at all happy to have this particular guest. He winced inwardly in anticipation of the complaints he would surely get from her later tonight: a scoundrel and probable murderer, seated at the same table as her ch
ildren! Now Polly, he would say, he’s an old friend of mine. I couldn’t turn him away. And she would scowl and complain more … and he wouldn’t be at all sure she wasn’t right.

  Supper was a tense and difficult time, at least for the adult Crocketts. Polly reacted exactly as David had anticipated, maintaining an icy politeness to Persius and firing angry glances at her husband every chance she got. David suffered from being in the middle of the situation, balancing Polly’s anger with the need to be friendly to his old companion.

  The Crockett boys, typically, were fascinated with their guest. Little William loudly asked David if Persius was an Indian, and David’s negative reply was quick and forceful, for he remembered how feverishly Persius had resented such questions in the past. This time Persius didn’t grow angry, for which David was grateful, because certainly the little boy had intended no insult.

  Persius’s own tensions, if he felt any, were undetectable. David studied him closely, taking care not to make it obvious. Persius looked much older: because of the heavy beard, because of the deeper lines around his eyes, because of the intangible callous quality that inevitably inscribes the countenances of those who have lived a life too full of trial and trouble. He had changed, but David considered that maybe the change wasn’t solely in Persius, but in himself too.

  Conversation touched on many things in general, and nothing in particular. They talked over of the Crocketts’ home life, of funny things the boys had said and done, of how the Canaday clan was doing at last contact, of David’s and Polly’s parents and siblings. Persius revealed nothing about his own experiences since his flight from Jefferson County, and when the conversation steered in his direction, he deflected it deftly onto some other course.

  He was reluctant to talk, and David wanted to respect his wishes. But he couldn’t entirely. He was a family man now, with a wife and children to be considered. If Persius was to be welcomed here, there was one thing he as host would have to know, even if Persius didn’t like being asked about it.