Crockett of Tennessee Read online

  The issue, which seemed so simple at heart to him, had become increasingly complicated by the machinations of other representatives and the competition of various interests. John Bell had arisen in favor of using some of the vacant lands designated for educational usage as an endowment for the University of Nashville, a position that David fiercely opposed; believing that his poor constituents would benefit little, if any, from such usage. Better, he argued, to use the lands for common schools for the poor; most of the impoverished farmers who lived in his represented counties would likely never see the inside of a college. The sons of the rich would benefit at the expense of the poor.

  He continued to work in alliance with Polk, though he sensed a growing tension between them on details of the debate. Still, when Polk argued that an insufficient number of land parcels had been set aside to fulfill the educational usage requirements laid put by an 1806 compact, and that in order to remedy this and aid the common school fund, certain lands should be sold by existing state land offices, David rose to his aid, helping defend his positions against opponents.

  “I am a plain and unvarnished man,” he told his fellow lawmakers. “I have not had the advantage of an education, and from that lack I know the value of what I’ve missed. That’s why I’m wanting to be sure the poor boys that follow after me have their fair opportunity at schooling.”

  But in the end all the argument led to nothing. The bill was tabled, the session closed, and David Crockett headed home for Tennessee with no land bill in hand to show his constituents. He was surprised; he had honestly expected to be able to push the bill through in one legislative session.

  Campbell Ibbotson wasn’t surprised at all; he had been a congressional observer for a long time, and knew how matters really worked and how little idealism counted for. He felt sorry for his new friend’s disappointment, but not too sorry. Crockett of Tennessee was learning the lessons that needed learning, and already Ibbotson could detect growth in the man. He was still uncouth, still poorly spoken, still so nearly illiterate as to require ghost-writing of almost every document he produced (Ibbotson himself secretly provided some of that service)—but he wasn’t quite as uncouth, as poorly spoken, as illiterate as before. Even his choice of clothing showed improvement.

  Dr. Ibbotson was a man who prided himself on judgment, and in his opinion, David Crockett was a rough stone that just might polish up into a diamond, or at least a ruby—if he had a little help, the right kind of nudging, support, and behind-the-scenes direction.

  Well, Ibbotson decided, that he’ll have, courtesy of himself. He’d see David Crockett rise to his potential yet, or count himself a failure. There was greatness beneath that rugged surface, Ibbotson thought. Destiny had its hand on that man, and he’d see if he could prod it along. Who knew how far David Crockett might rise in this world?

  He poured himself a drink and sat back, entertaining a thought that seemed simultaneously farfetched and intriguing: it would be an interesting thing to be personal physician to a President of the United States.

  In the dim light of dusk David strolled up Capitol Hill toward the massive building that never failed to give him pause and turn his gaze upward in sincere awe. The Capitol building—stately, vast, wood-domed, the very symbol of national power—caused him to catch his breath whenever he drew near it. Even now it was hard to believe he was really here, that he was really a part of the very power structure of the nation. Not all that long ago he had barely understood how the nation was governed; at one time he had actually believed that a president was equivalent to a king, his wishes automatically carried out by decree.

  The Capitol building had a new look to it, accounted for by the fact it had been substantially rebuilt after being burned by the British in 1814. The fire had gutted the interiors of both the north and south wing. Repairs had been done, and construction of a central portion of the building began in 1818, and had been completed only recently.

  It seemed that there was a bustle of activity around the Capitol at almost any hour, but at the moment all was relatively quiet. David entered the building and experienced the same somber feeling one receives upon entering a great cathedral. He swept off the broad white hat that was a typical part of his Washington garb.

  He explored the dark recesses and hallways, and made his way into the great chamber where the House of Representatives met. Looking around, he smiled. After weeks of feeling like an alien thrust into a world he knew nothing of, he was beginning to feel comfortable in these surroundings. It was not the first time he had made this kind of unheralded personal visit to the Capitol. By coming here at off hours, he accommodated himself to the place, made himself feel more at home. He looked about the empty chamber, remembering the impression it had made on him the first time he had taken his seat in a full session. Important-looking men had been all around him, shuffling papers, laughing easily, freely talking among themselves, even when business was being conducted from the chair—the circuslike atmosphere had put him in mind of one of his campaign appearances before a crudely mannered crowd of his own constituents—except few of his constituents dressed in the suits, cravats, and cambric ruffles that were the uniform of the typical United States congressman.

  Returning to the front entrance, he looked out across the city of Washington. It wasn’t a large city in comparison to the major cities of the nation, but to a man accustomed to little frontier towns, it seemed the epitome of civilization, as settled and firm as some ancient European capital. The monuments, the big buildings, the patterned layout of the town—it was enough to choke a man with astonishment and admiration. The world was indeed a much bigger and more astonishing place than David Crockett the frontiersman had ever known.

  He was glad to have learned the world was as lofty as it was. In such a world a clever and capable man could ascend to dizzying heights. Or he could sure as blazes give it his best try. David Crockett intended to do just that. Maybe he hadn’t made it very high in the world of commerce and business, but politics was a whole different climbing tree.

  Looking into the night sky over Washington, David said aloud, “Betsy, you just watch me. I’m going to dig in tooth and toenail and climb as high as I can go. And this time I won’t fall off.”

  “What’s that, sir? Were you speaking to me?”

  David wheeled. Two strangers had emerged from the shadows behind him and overheard him. He felt himself blush profusely and hoped the darkness was thick enough to hide it.

  “No, nothing. Just jabbering to myself like granny in the still house, that’s all. Evening to you.” As usually happened when he was embarrassed, his Tennessee backwoods accent doubled its already substantial thickness and made his words all but indecipherable. Still blushing, he slapped his hat back on his head and made his escape as quickly as possible.

  “You know who that is?” one of the men said to the other as he receded into the gathering dark. “That’s Crockett of Tennessee. A member of the House of Representatives.”

  “You don’t mean it! That backwoods pone eater? What’d they do, pull him out of a cornfield and force him into a suit and shoes at the point of a rifle?”

  “That’s substantially the tale I heard. And I understand the only reason he hasn’t gotten out of the garments is that he hasn’t figured out yet how to work the buttons.” And they laughed.

  Out on the walkway, David Crockett glowered. Snobbish educated fools! He’d encountered too many of their type already, and knew he’d have to deal with plenty more. They thought they were mighty smart, that breed—but they weren’t even smart enough to know that a backwoods pone eater had keener ears than citified types. They obviously had thought he was out of earshot.

  “You up there!” he hollered out of the darkness, enjoying it when he saw them start in surprise at the sound of his voice. “Yes, you two! Answer me a question, would you? Where in this town can a man find French Jane’s Parlor of Delight?”

  “What? I say, sir, that’s a damned impudent kind of thin
g to be asking,” one of the pair responded. “We’re employees of the government, and not in the business of directing men of low repute to houses of sin.”

  “Oh, I ain’t looking to be no patron of such a place,” David called back. “I was just aiming on dropping in to say hello to your maw and sisters. Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Their walking sticks upraised like clubs, they looked for him for three or four minutes, but somehow he had managed to vanish like smoke in the darkness.

  Chapter 41

  One term in Congress had made David Crockett a relatively famous figure, and word of his return home preceded him. From a passing rider, John Wesley Crockett heard that his father was approaching. Keeping the information to himself, he discreetly saddled and mounted his own horse and rode out about a mile from home to meet the homecoming congressman.

  David was weary, mentally and physically, and it showed. Son looked father up and down and shook his head. “They’ve wore you out up in Washington, Pa. They’ve surely wore you plumb out.”

  “That’s the truth,” David replied, thrusting out his hand to his son. “Good to see you, John Wesley. How are matters at home? Is Betsy well?”

  “Yes …”

  David caught the tentative tone and was alarmed. “What’s wrong, John Wesley?”

  The young man drew in a deep breath. “There was something that happened while you were away. Pap … there was a baby at the door in a wood box. Real sickly. She tried to save it, but—”

  “Whoa! You’ll have to chew that bite again for me. Did you say ‘baby’?”

  John Wesley slowed down and told the story in full. David was astounded, and asked why he hadn’t been informed by letter. His son looked very somber, reached into his pocket and drew something out, which he presented to David. “Because of this, Pap.”

  David took it. It was the silver piece he had carried for so many years, the one he had last seen the night he put it into the hand of Persius Tarr in that camp during the Creek War. “How … what did …”

  “I recognized it as your old silver chunk. It was in the shirt the baby was wrapped in—there on purpose, it seemed, from the way it was tucked in the cuff. I don’t understand it, Pap. You said you lost that during the Creek War.”

  Lost it … yes, he had, though he had never explained even to his family just how he had parted ways with it. He couldn’t very well admit he had passed it to a criminal prisoner for use in bribing his guard … a guard subsequently murdered.

  “Well, I did lose it. I can’t figure how it’s come back to me in such a peculiar way.” He paused, knitting his brows. “This baby, John Wesley. What did it look like?”

  “I don’t know. Just like a baby.”

  “It’s color and such, I mean. Dark hair or light?”

  “Dark.”

  “What about the skin?”

  “Well, it wasn’t no Negro. But it was on the darkish side for a white child. Why? You think you might know who it belonged to?”

  David shook his head quickly. “No, no. Of course not. Just curious.”

  John Wesley lowered his voice; he looked very uncomfortable when he spoke next. “Pap, Betsy’s got an opinion about who it belonged to. And partly I’m to blame for it, because when I found that silver piece by the hearth—it had rattled out of the baby’s wrap and fell there—I told her it looked to be the same one you had carried when I was a boy. So now she’s taken to thinking the baby is … well, yours.”

  “God!”

  “Pap, it’s hard to argue her down on it. I mean, it does look bad, you know. Why did whoever-it-was leave that baby at your door in particular, and how did they come by your silver piece, if they didn’t know you already?”

  “Is my own son accusing me of adultery?”

  “No, Pap, no. I’m just telling you why Betsy is thinking like she is, and what she’ll be saying to you when you get home.”

  David forced back the anger John Wesley’s words had stirred. The young man deserved praise, not condemnation, for having forewarned him of the situation so frankly. David shook his head and sighed. What a homecoming this would be! He had been looking forward to seeing his wife; now he dreaded it. How could he explain this to her satisfaction, when he could find no explanation that gave him satisfaction himself?

  They talked long into the night, with tears shed by both—and David virtually never cried about anything. But he argued so intensely and strove so hard to make her really know his innocence that his emotions involved themselves. He decided later that maybe it was the fact he had grown emotional that actually convinced her he was telling her the truth when he said he had been faithful and had no more idea than she about the origins of that unfortunate baby, and why it had been left at the Crockett door.

  Now he lay awake, wondering if perhaps he did have an idea. It was Persius who had possessed the piece of silver; might the child have been his? A dark-haired, dark-skinned baby, John Wesley had said. That would likely be the look of a child Persius fathered. And if the child had been sickly, and something had happened to the mother, and Persius was close by at the time, and had known his old friend David Crockett lived hereabouts—he just might put the child on the Crockett doorstep.

  The next day David went to the place the baby was buried and puzzled over the mystery some more, fingering the piece of silver in his pocket. It was a gnawing, nagging thing, not knowing the truth. It could be he would never know. At least the incident had been kept quiet, and if it had been Persius who abandoned the baby, at least he hadn’t shown himself. As a congressman, David Crockett didn’t need the likes of Persius Tarr in his life anymore. The man was trouble to the core, and he spread it everywhere he went.

  Days passed, and David forgot the little grave and the odd return of the silver nugget. It was good to be home, away from the pressures of Washington. Not that there weren’t troubles of other kinds at home. Finances were still difficult, and the losses he and Elizabeth had suffered at Shoal Creek continued to plague them. He had purchased land in Weakley County several months before, but was unable to pay the taxes on them. And he was going to be sued again by another creditor, according to all indications.

  In the summer, he was appointed to mark a road from Weakley County’s Dresden to the Gibson County line. Then there was the usual farming and family activities, along with background work toward the next legislative session and meeting with constituents, with whom the subject inevitably was the land bill. When he had the chance, he took his bear dogs, Tiger, Rattler, Death Maul, Whirlwind, and Thunderbolt, and spent time with them roaming the woods and hunting. Weeks rolled quickly by.

  By winter the Twentieth Congress was in session and David was back in Washington, pushing his land-related efforts again, and more determined than ever to succeed. Ibbotson noted a difference in his friend this session and knew it came from experience. Crockett was still rough-edged and uncouth, but he was no longer naive. He knew what to expect, what not to. And he was beginning to develop a notion that his Tennessee colleagues were far more tied to the power structure within the state than he wished to be. His constituency was the impoverished western squatter, he declared to Ibbotson, not wealthy landowners and the state legislators who lived in their pockets. Differences between him and Polk began to emerge; David Crockett was becoming an increasingly independent political entity, and former allies began whispering and writing in private letters that he was “associating with our political enemies,” and had begun offering to alter his vote on other projects in return for support for his own pet bill.

  Ibbotson found his companion fascinating to observe. He sensed that his own relationship to David was becoming one of advisor and mentor, not to mention occasional speech crafter and writer of letters on his behalf. Ibbotson sought neither remuneration nor recognition for this; in fact he insisted that his dealings with David be kept entirely private, not wishing to be seen as factional. As a physician with an active practice in the political community, he could not afford to be boyc
otted by members of any party out of political retaliation.

  Some of the battles he helped David fight from the background involved overcoming simple misperceptions. In one widely published newspaper story, David was presented as putting on an unforgivable display of crudity and boorishness at a dinner hosted by President John Quincy Adams. The story spread far, even appearing in Crockett’s home region, and it required the writing and publishing of letters by others in attendance at that dinner to refute the charges. David was stung badly; he determined to improve his manners, dress, and speaking abilities—and the inevitable result was for him to turn more than ever to the guidance of Dr. Ibbotson.

  By the time of the 1829 congressional campaign, James K. Polk and the “Jacksonians” had broken fellowship with Crockett. They worked to see him defeated, pitting Adam Alexander against him once more, but Crockett was popular at home, and soundly won the election despite some very hostile campaign tricks against him.

  When the victorious Crockett of Tennessee returned to Congress late in 1829, he did so with his old Creek War leader, Andrew Jackson, in the White House. Toward Jackson, David held ambivalent feelings, for both personal and political reasons. From the time he had watched Jackson put down the “mutiny” attempt against him in the Creek War, he had held a private grudge against the man, though politically he had supported him, at least in public, during his first days in Congress. But privately he had begun to turn on Jackson and his cronies in the congressional session that had begun in 1828. As Jackson’s time in office stretched out and certain of his presidential actions began to disappoint some of his former supporters, David found himself shifting gradually into a faction becoming known as Southern Whigs—purportedly loyal to Jackson as a person, but disdainful of the “direction” being given him by those around him.