Crockett of Tennessee Read online

  He smiled and put his arms around her. “There’ll be no losing to it, Betsy. I’m going to win this one; I can feel it. Before long you’re going to be the wife of a United States congressman. You can be proud. You can hold your head up high.”

  “I’ve always held my head up high,” she replied, and it was true, because she had always been a canny, practical, and self-reliant woman. And a little forward, at times, as she was right now. While David began to turn and slip away from her, she grasped his shoulders and firmly turned him toward her again, and kissed him on the mouth so forcefully he almost stumbled backward.

  Dusk was falling and the torches were already lit near the platform at the edge of the clearing. Off to an adjacent side sat a wagon with a big whiskey barrel on it and the tailgate lowered and stacked with an assortment of cups and mugs. Already the clearing was filled with men, and more arrived every moment. Elizabeth Crockett stood in the shadows, deliberately keeping out of view, and watched her husband move among the crowd, shaking hands and joking and generally looking as if he was having the finest time of his life meeting the voters.

  She smiled privately, proud of him. An intelligent woman, she realized her husband’s limitations, his lack of education, his near illiteracy, his sometimes oversimplistic understanding of the world and of political matters, his too-short temper. Yet among the kind of backwoods constituency gathering now in this clearing, he fit in where the typical finely dressed, practiced, schooled politician did not. The men recognized that he was one of them, that when he put out his hand and shook theirs, no condescension or pretense marred the gesture.

  Her eyes shifted to David’s two opponents. One was Colonel Alexander, the incumbent he had faced before; the other was General William Arnold. Both men were residents of the city of Jackson, and cut from a different sort of political cloth than was David. They were silk, and he was sacking; they no doubt believed they held the advantage because of it. But Elizabeth knew what David knew as well: silk might be finer to look at, but sacking was a devil of a lot more useful.

  As darkness fell, the campaigning began. This was the first such event Elizabeth had attended, and she watched with interest, and then mounting irritation, as first Alexander, and then Arnold rose to speak—and with snobbish deliberateness presented the campaign and the voters’ choice as if this were a two-man race. David was being ignored, treated as a nonentity. No references were made to any of his positions, no points were addressed by either Arnold or Alexander other than those raised by one or the other of those two. As Elizabeth saw the strategy being played out, dark anger filled her. How dare they treat her husband with such contempt!

  But David didn’t look worried, she noticed, and when a flock of guineas came walking into the clearing, raising their usual racket and causing Arnold to have to pause in mid-speech to request their removal, she saw her husband’s eyes sparkle mischievously.

  At length the two pomposities were finished with their presentations and it came time for the backwoodsman to make his effort. Arnold and Alexander sat back, refusing even to look at Crockett, and feigning a few yawns as he began to speak. There was no polish on David Crockett’s voice, no affected style or ten-dollar words. The Crockett that stood before the crowd to seek their vote was the same Crockett they would find if they were trading horses or swapping jackknives.

  “Now gentlemen of the cane—as I was once called by an uppity and biggity sort of puffball in the state legislature, a man who didn’t rightly appreciate us folk of the backwoods—you’ve surely heard some fine speechifying done by my two fine opponents here this evening. I was particular impressed by the ability of Colonel Arnold”—and at that Arnold twitched and frowned, for his militia rank was not colonel, but general—“to speak the language of the fowls.”

  David paused a moment. Men in the crowd glanced at one another. Language of the fowls? What could that mean?

  “Now, the good Colonel Arnold is a polite man, so polite he didn’t even risk offending me by calling my name even once during his entire speech. Why, he was so polite that even when my little bird friends, the guineas, come walking in here, calling ‘Crockett, Crockett, Crockett,’ he was so fearful I’d take offense that he even had them shooed away.”

  A great roar of laughter rumbled through the crowd. General Arnold turned ruddy and shifted unhappily in his chair, while off to the side, Elizabeth Crockett crossed her arms in satisfaction and smiled.

  David’s speech beyond that was brief. He mentioned the fact of cotton’s price decline despite Colonel Alexander’s tariff policy, threw in a few more jokes and jabs, then pointed a finger at the whiskey wagon.

  “Gentlemen, I believe the time has come not only to elect David Crockett to the United States Congress, but to do so with properly wetted whistles. I’m ready for a cup, and all who’d like to share one, come with me.”

  A shout of approval rose through the treetops, and as a mass the men surged toward the whiskey. David grinned, turned and winked at his opponents, then descended from the platform and joined the tide toward the liquor wagon. Alexander and Arnold looked at each other with expressions of concern, and Elizabeth Crockett saw it and was gratified.

  David Crockett, gentleman from the cane, might just win this campaign after all.

  October 1827

  David’s oldest son, John Wesley Crockett, was no child anymore, but a strapping man about two decades old who dropped a hint from time to time that more than one Crockett might turn to politics before all was done. He had accompanied his father extensively throughout the campaigning, and was with him now, along with stepmother Elizabeth, as the three made an autumn journey east, heading back through David’s old territories and toward Elizabeth’s original home grounds as well. This was a quiet, personal tour, yet also a celebration, because Colonel David Crockett was now Congressman Crockett of Tennessee, having won his race with a margin of almost three thousand votes.

  They stopped at numerous places, meeting new people and visiting old friends. One of the latter was his former neighbor, James Blackburn, who was hosting a corn-shucking party when David showed up. Having a newly elected congressman in their midst brought much pride and pleasure to the frolickers, and David was made very welcome, but joined in the shucking with the others to make sure all knew he had not become conceited with his new important status.

  He and his family went on the next day, but Elizabeth was worried. David didn’t look well—she could always tell when he was growing ill—and sure enough, by the next afternoon he was feverish and weak, sweating even in the cool autumn breeze. This was a recurrence of the same illness he had suffered during his exploration of Alabama years ago.

  They reached Swannanoa with David in very poor condition, and there they remained for many days until his health could return. A doctor was called in to bleed him, the usual treatment for almost any illness, and when he learned that David was bound soon for Washington to begin a term in Congress, he wrote a name on a piece of paper.

  “Look up Dr. Campbell Ibbotson when you arrive in Washington,” the doctor said. “He’s an old fellow student and friend of mine, and quite a fine doctor with a good practice in Washington City. And he’s a Tennessean, so he’ll be particularly pleased to know you. Should this sickness recur on you there, he’s the man you’ll want to treat you.”

  November came, and David was still weak, but much better than he had been. Congress was to convene on the third day of December, and thanks to David’s illness, there was no time for him to return home before departing.

  He kissed his Betsy good-bye, turned her over to the care of John Wesley, and watched sadly as they began the long westward trek home. When they were out of sight, he paused, took a deep breath, and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

  Then, fighting the fatigue left by illness, he mounted his horse and began his own journey, toward Washington.

  Chapter 40

  A Few Months Later

  Sweeping off his hat as the door opene
d, David nodded a greeting to gray-haired Dr. Campbell Ibbotson. This meeting occurred on the external but covered landing outside the second-story entrance to Dr. Ibbotson’s living quarters, comprising a suite of modest rooms above his office and clinic. The neat, smallish brick structure stood on a narrow side street that led onto the wide dirt thoroughfare of Pennsylvania Avenue; it had been home to the widower physician for five years.

  “Well, if it isn’t Colonel David Crockett! Come in, come in!” Ibbotson stepped aside and swept his hand back in invitation. “I’m happy you were able to come.”

  “Thank you, Campbell.” David entered, looking around and sniffing the faint scent of medicines that always permeated these rooms, wafting up through the creaky floorboards from the clinic. It was an odd but not unpleasant smell; even so, he didn’t like it because he associated it with being bled. He had arrived some months earlier in the capital city still weak from his recurring malaria, and had come here for treatment. He had found Ibbotson to his liking. A transplanted Knoxvillian, Ibbotson was acquainted with some of the families David had known in youth and enjoyed talking with David over matters and memories of their common home state. The doctor-patient relationship lasted only an hour or so, to be replaced by one of friend to friend.

  Twice David had come to Ibbotson’s quarters to play cards, share a bottle, and talk of this new and strange life of national politics in which he found himself. David was out of place and knew it. His manner was not that of a city man, but of a backwoodsman. His diction was that of an uneducated western southerner; his clothing, while not hunting garb, was of cheap cloth and styling. He had detected the stares and whispers that shadowed him, and caught fellow members of Congress giving him sidewise, amused glances many times.

  Sometimes he had been embarrassed by this—but not tremendously so, especially since Ibbotson had counseled him that it could actually play to his advantage. “You are not merely one of the usual crowed,” the old doctor had said. “You are different. You catch the eye and the ear, and have about you an air and manner that some might think is simple and illiterate, but which, if properly shaped and used, can equally be perceived as the rugged wisdom of the American common man. There is already talk about you, you might wish to know, to the effect that you claim the ability to wade the Mississippi River, whip your weight in panthers and fellow congressmen, and carry steamboats on your back.”

  “I’ve never made any such claims,” David had replied. “Though there’s not a thing you’ve said that ain’t the gospel.”

  David tossed his coat and hat onto a newspaper-heaped sofa and seated himself at Ibbotson’s table as the doctor fetched cards, glasses, plates of cheese and biscuits, and a bottle. For several minutes they played, ate, and drank in near silence, each comfortable in the presence of the other, until at last Ibbotson asked David about his latest impressions of Congress.

  “I’m a right smart befuddled and dismayed,” David said. “I’ve come to believe some of your early warnings about the slowness of activity among the lawmakers were right after all.”

  “Indeed they were. I’ve been here long enough to know, my friend. They all come in the first time like you did, expecting to see their pet bills passed in two days and put into effect in a week. Oh, it’s a hard lesson that they face, but an essential one! The government’s mills grind more slowly even than God’s, David Crockett: And usually to much less effect.”

  David grunted, thinking of his own favorite measure that he had placed before Congress within days of his own arrival. This was a bill that sought to give West Tennessee squatters ownership of the federal lands they had settled upon. In Congress the issue was already a concern for a Tennessee congressman who had been in Washington since 1825, James K. Polk. It was an old and complex matter, arising out of North Carolina’s 1796 cession of its former lands, which became Tennessee in that year, and certain stipulations involving recognition of prior Carolinian land laws and bounties of property paid to its Revolutionary War veterans. The upshot of it all for David Crockett was a desire to protect the best interests of West Tennessee squatters, who he believed would be threatened and impoverished if vested East and Middle Tennessee landholders had their way and the public lands were sold to fund public schools.

  If there was any particular issue that Crockett perceived himself as championing, it was that of squatter’s rights. It was primarily to deal with this matter that he had come to Congress in the first place, and he wouldn’t consider himself a full success unless he pushed his bill through in some acceptable form.

  Ibbotson and Crockett’s discussions seldom failed to get around to the vacant land issue, and such was the case tonight. David was in a quiet mood, talking mostly about James Polk and the mutual cooperation they were extending to each other on the lands issue. But David was growing frustrated; it seemed that there were so many with vested interests in slowing the bill that it was being talked into oblivion.

  “I had hoped to have the matter settled by the end of my first session, but now I’m deuced uncertain about it.”

  “Keep trying, David. It’s the only way. Keep trying, and remain true to your principles. And compromise. Always be willing to compromise, or you’ll succeed in nothing in this town.”

  “I don’t see how a man can stay true to his principles and compromise at the same time. Let a man talk out of both sides of his mouth enough, and before long he’ll be singing duets with hisself at the meeting house.”

  Ibbotson chuckled. “The fact is, compromise is necessary in this town. Those who don’t learn to use it don’t last.”

  “Well, a man can only compromise so far. Be sure you’re right, then go ahead. That’s my motto, and that’s how I plan to handle this congressman business I’ve got myself into. My land bill is right, and I’ll see it through, hell or high water.”

  Ibbotson smiled and took a sip of his liquor. “We shall see.”

  “You’re blamed right we shall.”

  The Crockett Cabin, Gibson County, Tennessee, Early 1828

  Elizabeth jerked awake very suddenly, making a faint vocal sound in the back of her throat. Looking around the room, she found herself confused. It was dark, and the fire had burned low. The last thing she could remember, she had built up the blaze and sat down in her favorite rocker to enjoy a cup of hot tea before retiring. The rest of the family had already gone to bed, and she had enjoyed the solitude. But she hadn’t intended to fall asleep in her chair.

  Something nibbled at the corners of her consciousness; she felt a vague, undefined sense of disquiet. Why had she awakened like she had? Something she had heard …

  … outside the door. She stood, remembering. A little cry, like a mewling cat or whimpering puppy. And a knocking sound—a rap on the door? Drawing her shawl tightly around her shoulders, she went to the door and looked out through the little window. It was cool and drizzly outside; she could see little. Then her gaze descended and she let out a gasp.

  “Oh Lord! Lord have mercy!”

  One of the children appeared in the room behind her as she scrambled to open the door. “Mama? I heard a knock.…”

  Elizabeth jerked open the door and knelt, lifting the wooden crate that had been left outside it. The crate was half filled with dirty flax, and nestled down in it, wrapped in a filthy and tattered shirt of homespun linsey-woolsey, was a thin and sick-looking baby girl.

  “Mama, is that a baby?”

  “Yes, yes it is … oh God, who would leave a child out on such a night? And why did they bring it to … oh, this child looks ill and weak.” She put a finger out and touched the face; the baby rooted toward it hungrily, found it, sucked on it, then made a displeased face and let out a feeble cry. This was the same sound that Elizabeth had heard in her sleep.

  “Mama, did somebody leave her there?”

  “Yes, yes, obviously so!”

  “But who was it?”

  “How should I know, child? Milk, that’s what we need. Some warm milk, and a rag. This child
looks nigh to death—see the pallor of her? What shall I do if she dies?”

  John Wesley Crockett had come into the room by now, and gaped in astonishment at the amazing sight of his stepmother holding a skinny baby he had never seen before. “What the devil—”

  “John Wesley, I don’t understand this,” Elizabeth said, talking rapidly and excitedly. “Someone has left a child here, and she looks like she could die at any moment, and she’s just as sickly and weak as she can be, so much she can hardly cry, and—”

  “Let me hold her,” he said, seeing that she was becoming overwrought. He couldn’t fault her for it; certainly this was a most disturbing, oddly frightening, development.

  The child felt like little more than a cold clay doll in his hands. Instinctively he knew this was a seriously ailing baby. Whoever had left it must have been desperately seeking help for the child; perhaps they had believed that the family of a congressman surely would have some means of providing for the child’s care.

  “This old shirt stinks,” John Wesley said. “Let’s fetch a clean wrap.” He removed the tattered garment from the baby and was shocked, and slightly repelled, at the thinness of the miniature human form now unveiled. Wadding the shirt in one hand, he tossed it into the fireplace … and only half noticed the object that tumbled out of the upturned cuff and onto the hearth. Only later would he recall, retrieve, and examine it.

  They wrapped the baby in clean cloths and fed it as best they could on milk fetched from the springhouse and warmed. The infant, though acting hungry, would scarcely suck the nourishment from the rag. “What this baby needs is a wet nurse,” Elizabeth said. “Come tomorrow, we must seek one.”

  But it was not to be, because the next morning the strange little infant, origin and name unknown, had closed its eyes and slept, and while sleeping, had left the world of the living.

  David had never known such frustration. Despite his best efforts, despite cooperation and interplay with James K. Polk, all attempts to push through the vacant lands bill had come to nothing, and the congressional session was soon to close.