Crockett of Tennessee Read online

  As David’s months in Congress passed, he became ever more solidified in his opposition to Jackson. He opposed him more and more vocally, while at the same time declaring that it was Jackson who had changed, not he. “I am yet a Jackson man in principles, but not in name,” he said. “I shall insist upon it that I am still a Jackson man, but General Jackson is not; he has become a Van Buren man.”

  Then, in his second term, rose an issue that would create more controversy for David Crockett than any he had yet faced, and exact a higher personal price. When the vote came, out of all the Tennessee delegation, David Crockett would be left standing alone.

  “I am concerned, David,” Ibbotson said, his bushy brows moving toward each other as his eyes narrowed. “You are an idealistic man, and a man of principle, especially in view of your devotion to the ‘common man’.…”

  “There’s a but’ coming right about now,” David said, grinning.

  “Yes, yes. ‘But’—you must be sure that your ideals don’t lead you away from common sense. Life does involve compromise, David. Sometimes one must give up a portion of an ideal in order to win the greater part … do you understand?”

  “Of course I do. I reckon I’ve done that aplenty. I’ve offered to trade my vote more than once.”

  “Yes, well … but a trade of votes, that smacks of giving in too much sometimes.…”

  “Hold up here—which sin am I guilty of, holding too hard to my ideals or not holding hard enough? Make up your mind, Doctor.”

  Ibbotson pursed his lips and shook his head. “Never mind it, then. But let me ask you something, in confidence: How do you plan to vote on Jackson’s Indian removal policy?”

  The playful flicker in David’s eyes went out like Ibbotson had puffed away a candle flame. After a pause David said, “Reckon I’m obliged to vote against it.”

  “Against it … when you know that the common men of your district would probably support the Indian removal to the last man?”

  “Yes. I can’t help it, Campbell. You have to understand that the Injuns”—catching the wink of the eye of Ibbotson, ever vigilant to correct the frontierisms of his speech, David paused—“the Indians as I know them now ain’t the savages we fought in the Creek War days. Not all of them, leastways. Most of the Indians of West Tennessee are living in communities, farming, taking part in life with the rest of the folk. They’re common men too. Neighbors, you see. I can’t see the right in just uprooting them and pushing them out. I wouldn’t be treated that way myself, and I don’t see how I can support Jackson’s bill.”

  “You’ll pay a political price for such a stand,” Ibbotson said.

  “Well, then I’ll pay it. They didn’t send me to Washington to vote against my conscience, I don’t figure.”

  “No … unless yours doesn’t agree with theirs. Ask yourself, David—is it worth it, voting against a popular measure, when there’s no chance of a majority taking your side? Jackson’s bill will go through, however you may vote.”

  “That may be. If it is, I’ll live with it.”

  “Your mind can’t be changed?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re far too stubborn, David Crockett.”

  “You think so? Next thing you’ll be telling me is I ain’t stubborn enough. That’s the way with you, Ibbotson. I hope you don’t practice your medicine the way you give me advice. You’d never decide what it is you’re trying to cure and what you’re trying to keep.”

  Unusual silence held in the great hall where the representatives sat gathered, and all eyes were on Crockett of Tennessee as he advanced to the podium. All present had a good idea of the gist of what he was going to say, and from the looks David saw on most of the somber faces looking back at him, he knew that his words were not going to fall on welcoming ears.

  He paused, clearing his throat, looking around the distinguished assembly. For a couple of seconds a cold panic struck him, and more even than that first time he had set foot inside the Capitol, he felt out of place. What was he doing here, dressed in a fine black suit and cravat, his longish dark hair neatly combed back behind his ears, his feet shod in uncomfortable shoes of stiff leather instead of the old-fashioned moccasins he still often wore when he was home? He was a coot among peacocks, a cur among fox hounds, a mule among racehorses.

  He fought back the panic, knowing it would be fatal to his credibility if he showed fear, and reached inside his coat to pull out a few folded sheets of paper. Spreading them, he looked down at the neat handwriting of Dr. Ibbotson, and felt a warm burst of gratitude toward his secret aide and mentor. Even though Ibbotson was convinced that David was making an error in publicly standing up against one of Andrew Jackson’s most popular measures, he had sat down with pen and paper and helped David draft out as good and thorough an explanation of his position as he could. David was sure he could have never put together his thoughts so well on his own. Thank God for Campbell Ibbotson.

  David coughed into his fist a couple of times and cleared his throat. Opening his mouth to speak, he coughed again. Glances and smiles passed subtly between the many members of the body who found Crockett to be little more than a walking joke, a coonskin congressman representing backwoodsmen. A little flurry of anger stirred through David, and it was to his advantage, because his nervousness immediately disappeared.

  “Mr. Speaker,” he began, “and distinguished members of the House of Representatives, it might be expected that a man with so humble a speaking manner as myself might content himself to cast a silent vote on the matter before us. But considering the place I stand in relation to this matter, and the place you stand, I believe it is my duty to explain the motives behind my vote.

  “Other gentlemen here have already discussed the issue of treaty-making power, and I’ll not attempt to do better than they have already.” He lifted his eyes from his paper; now that he had begun to talk, he was at ease enough to begin mixing his own words with those Ibbotson had prepared. “All I intend to do here is explain the reasons for the vote I’m going to cast. I don’t know if a man within five hundred miles of my home in Tennessee would cast a similar vote, but the fact is that I know I must give my vote with a clear conscience. I’d love to please my constituents as much as any gentleman here, but someday I’ll have to make my accounting before the bar of my God, and what my own lights tell me is the right thing to do is the very thing I will do, consequences be damned … consequences being whatever they may be.” With that slip, he glanced back down at the paper to regain his bearings.

  “Gentlemen, I have always viewed the native Indian tribes of our country to be sovereign peoples. It’s my understanding that they have been recognized as such from the foundations of our government. The United States government is bound by treaty to protect these people, and indeed it is our duty to do so.

  “And as for the question of putting American money toward the removal of the Indians in the manner proposed, well, I cannot support that. I can do only what I can answer to God for, and if the people oppose me, that by comparison can be of no importance, satisfying as it is to have the pleasure of the constituents.

  “Now, I’ve served for some years now in the business of legislation, served from the time I didn’t even know what such a big word as ‘legislation’ meant.” A mild titter of laughter ran through the assembly. From somewhere in the back, an anonymous, just-audible voice asked if Crockett even yet knew what the word meant. He ignored the heckle and went on. “In all the times I have entered the legislative halls, I’ve never paid any heed to which party was doing the legislating, and God forbid that ever I should. I want to do only what is good for the country, and though I wish to work together with my colleagues in the West and the South, I’ll never let a party govern me on a question of such consequence as this one.”

  “Get to the specifics, Crockett!” someone shouted.

  “Well, sir, I shall,” he replied. “I have many objections to this bill. First off, I don’t like putting half a million dollars in
to the hands of the executive branch to be used in a manner nobody can really foresee and which we as Congress will be unable to control. Secondly, I don’t want to see us depart from the manner we’ve set up in dealing with the Indian nations from the beginnings of our government. The Injun … the Indian as he lives today is nothing but a poor remnant of a group of people who were once strong and big. The only chance for help these people have today is from us, the Congress, and if we turn our eyes away from them and close our ears to their cries for help, well, gentlemen, all that will come to them, in my candid opinion, is misery and sorrow.”

  He paused, looking around the assembly and studying the expressions turned back at him. There were frowns, looks of skepticism and impatience—but they were all listening. David picked up his papers and stepped out from behind the podium, his fire rising.

  “I’m reminded many times of the remark made by the famous Indian Red Jacket in this very building. You remember that story, don’t you? How old Red Jacket was shown the big picture hanging in the”—he looked down at the written speech to pick out that blasted architectural word he could never remember—“the rotunda, showing the pilgrims meeting with Indians, and a chief handing them an ear of corn to show friendship? When Red Jacket saw that picture, he said, “That was good.’ He said that white men and red men both came from the same Great Spirit, and were willing to share the land with his brothers from across the water. But then they showed Red Jacket the picture of Penn striking his treaty with the Indians, and he said, ‘Ah! All’s gone now!’ He knew what had come of treaties with the white men, and there’s a great deal of truth in how he felt. This present bill is as prime an example as you’ll find of what he was thinking about.

  “Four counties of my district, gentlemen, border the Chickasaw country. I know many of that tribe, and there’s not a thing I can think of that would make me consider trying to push them west of the Mississippi. I don’t know what kind of country is to be given to them there. Now, I’d gladly vote to send smart folks to examine that country and see what it was like, and come back and make a fair and free treaty with the tribes, and if they desired to move after that, I’d gladly vote to put up whatever money was needed to help them do it. But until that has been done, I can’t in good conscience vote for one cent.

  “This bill before us is a consternation and a confusion. It seems to aim toward removing every kind of Indian east of the Mississippi in any state where there is federal land. Now I know there are many suffering and neglected Indians. There’s plenty of them in Tennessee. No one would be more glad to see these folks removed to better stations than me, but only if they wanted it theirselves … themselves. I know personally there’s plenty of Cherokees who have said they’d rather die than be moved. ‘Let them come and tomahawk us here at home; we are willing to die, but never to remove.’ That’s the very language you’ll hear from some of the Cherokee.”

  He returned to the podium and leaned on it. He was smart enough to know he had persuaded no one, but at least he had their attention and—he hoped—their understanding.

  “Gentlemen, I know I stand alone here, none of the other representatives of my state agreeing with me. I can’t help that. I’ll go home again with a glad and light heart. I wish to serve my constituents honestly, but in light of my conscience, and the minute I exchange my conscience for party views, may God no longer suffer me to exist. I may be the only member of this House that votes against this bill, and the only man in the United States who disapproves it, but I’ll vote against it still and rejoice about it. I care nothing for popularity that isn’t gained through being upright.

  “I’ve been told by many here that I don’t understand good English grammar, and that’s true, I’ve had only a few months’ schooling in all my life. But I wasn’t willing to let that take from me my right to speak from this floor as a representative of free men. I’ve been charged with not representing the will of those who voted me in on this matter. Well, if that’s true, the error is in here”—he touched his head—“not here.” He touched his heart. “I’ve never had great wealth or learning, but I do have an independent spirit, and I hope to prove it by voting no on the bill before us.”

  He gathered his papers and returned to his seat. For a moment there was silence in the hall, and then someone applauded, then a few others. It never rose to much of a swell before petering out, but David appreciated it for what it was worth. He had spoken out for what he believed. Spoken out for a young Creek boy who had died with fire-blistered skin while a white army destroyed his town, spoken out for an old Indian woman who had drawn a bow with her feet and fired an arrow through the body of Ben Kelso, then paid for it with her life.

  It was the best he could do for them. He knew it wasn’t much, just a lone cry in the midst of a babble of dissent, but it had been an act from the heart, and David was glad he had done it.

  Chapter 42

  Hoping that nobody was close by to see him putting on so odd a display, David lifted his arms and stretched them toward the late May sky, then twisted his torso from side to side, waiting for the welcome popping in his back that would signal his spine was once again lined up properly. Beneath his breath he cursed the bed he slept on in his rented Washington rooms. It sagged in just the right way to make his back go out on him almost every night. It got so bad sometimes he dragged the blasted thing out onto the floor itself and slept on it that way. He should have done that last night.

  He leaned backward now, bobbing his body, then leaned forward and touched his toes. When he arose he was smiling. His back had popped and the pain was gone—at least until another night came and that cursed bed twisted him up again.

  He drew in a deep breath, enjoying the wet scent of the broad Potomac. Occasionally David enjoyed coming to the riverside for the fresh air and the simple pleasure of being near water. He had always loved rivers; he figured it was because he had been born beside one.

  He seated himself cross-legged beside the water. Today he was wearing very casual clothing: boots, well-worn wool trousers, a baggy cotton shirt, a floppy felt hat. He was glad for this day of respite from the usual bluster of lawmaker activity. Since delivering his speech and casting his vote, he felt drained and weary, in need of a rest. So today he had said to devil with duty. Davy Crockett was going to be a boy again. He was going to play hooky just like he had on old Kitching so many years ago.

  He was at the narrow portion of the Potomac where it passed Washington City some blocks from the White House. He found it remarkably ironic to be playing the child again in the very shadow of the city that represented duty and power. This wasn’t something he would do often—but today it was downright fun.

  He was tossing stones into the water when he heard a carriage rumble along the road behind him. At first he thought nothing of it and didn’t even glance back, but then the carriage halted and his name was called. He turned. The sun was up in the eastern sky, silhouetting the carriage and blinding him so he could not see who had called him.

  He cupped his hands over his eyes. “Who calls me?”

  There was no answer, but in the blur of light and shadow, he saw the carriage door open. A tall, lean figure descended and came striding toward him. Even before David made out the face, he knew just who it was.

  “By the eternal days,” he muttered, “it’s old Hickory-face Jackson hisself!”

  He straightened his shoulders and took off his hat, regretting his terribly inappropriate state of dress. Who would have anticipated encountering the President of the United States at such a time and place as this? How could he face him? And then he chided himself. This might be the President, but he was also his political foe. Why should he feel ashamed before Andrew Jackson, of all men?

  “Hello, Crockett,” Jackson said, extending his hand.

  “Mr. President.” David shook Jackson’s hand; it was lean and strong. Despite the advance of years and struggles with his health, Jackson’s grip was still firm. The grip of a leader.


  “Taking a rest from duty, Crockett?” Jackson asked, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “I had to look hard to be sure it was really you down here.”

  There was no point in denying the truth, and David didn’t. “Playing hooky, sir. Nothing important to be done today, and the truth is, I think I’d be a better servant of my constituents if I gave my mind some time to clear.”

  Jackson nodded. “I’m not rebuking you, Congressman. The fact is we all need time away to clear our heads.” That faint smile returned again. “But let me say something about your representation of your constituency. It seems to me that you have passed up a fine chance to represent them by going against the wishes of your own people in the Indian matter.”

  It was David’s turn to smile. “I voted my conscience. My reasons were laid out plain enough in what I said.”

  Jackson shook his head, much in the manner of an exasperated father trying to deal with a wayward son. Seeing that made David’s blood run hot, but he retained his smile.

  “I’m glad I chanced upon you here. Walk with me, Crockett, and let’s have a much-needed talk,” Jackson said.

  “I’d be tickled to, Mr. President.”

  Jackson called up to his driver to wait for him, and that no, he didn’t need accompaniment other than his chosen companion. David slipped his hat back onto his head and dug his hands into his pockets. In contrast to the nicely dressed President, he looked like some good-for-nothing riverside slouch, without job or home.

  “Crockett, there’s no point in denying that you’ve been a disappointment to me,” Jackson said. “As a fellow Tennessean and your former commander in the Creek War, I had hoped to have your support—indeed I thought I did have it there at the start. But bit by bit you’ve turned away from me.”

  “Mr. President, the fact is I believe it’s you who have done the turning. Pardon me for saying it, sir, but you ain’t the man many of us thought you would be. You’ve sung a different tune than we hoped.”