Crockett of Tennessee Page 35

  David stayed the night with Jimmy. The first part of the night he slept hard, but as morning drew near, dreams started. He was back at the Crockett tavern, digging that blasted well he had slaved at in boyhood. There was Jimmy, as he had been at that time, and above were his brothers and father, hoisting up the buckets of dirt and rock he filled. Then he felt the burst of sickness that had struck him low at that time. He knew he was dreaming … but for a dream, this burst of illness had quite a realistic feeling.

  When morning came he truly was sick. His malaria had flared up again. As he descended into the fever and delirium common to that disease, one of his last lucid thoughts was of the irony that once again Jimmy would care for him through the fever, just as he had so many years ago.

  David lost the ability to keep up with time as he tossed, burning and then shivering, suffering greatly. His fevered delusions were extremely unpleasant and incoherent, following no pattern except for one recurring dream: Uncle Jimmy’s face, appearing before him and speaking with words sounded in perfect clarity but undecipherable in meaning: “You’ll know the glory only when the glory-time comes. Go into the shining, David Crockett, and shout your hallelujah!” David would ponder the oddity of hearing a dumb man speak, and puzzle over the crazy words he had said, then would come a snatch of distant music, familiar but yet unknown, and Jimmy’s grinning face would vanish into the hellish flux of a meaningless, boundless malarial delirium. Then sometime later the cycle would repeat, always the same.

  Jimmy Crockett treated David with a mixture made from ingredients including Virginia snakeroot, cone flower, various other herbal extracts, and dogwood shavings. Other Crockett kin lived in the area, and when David finally emerged from his illness, there was a houseful of kinfolk to greet him. He spent another three days resting up, hearing news of the family—and details about Uncle Jimmy he hadn’t known, such as Jimmy’s propensity to take off back toward the Indian country in search of his lost silver mine, and how he had once gotten lost right in his own home region, wandering around in a hollow thereafter known as Dumb Jimmy’s Hollow.

  On the day he was ready to go, David was approached by Jimmy, who with noises and gestures inquired about the piece of silver he had given David years before.

  “I’ve got it still,” David replied, pulling it from his pocket. “I’ve never let it out of my possession from the day you made me a gift of it.” It was a lie, of course, considering the years it was in Persius Tarr’s possession, but Jimmy seemed pleased to hear it.

  Still weak, David traveled slowly, and eventually sold his horse and took to the stagecoach for the bulk of the journey home. As he rode, he engaged in deep thought. His time of travel had done him good. His mind was clearer now, and he began thinking toward the future.

  In Nashville he sat alone at a table in a dark corner of a tavern, and overheard a conversation that gave his thoughts even more focus. Two other men in the tavern, oblivious to his identity, were talking over the contents of a ragged and outdated New York newspaper that had been left on the table by some traveler who had since gone his way. David only half listened to their talk, until he overheard his own name mentioned. He snapped to attention, unnoticed by the conversationalists.

  “Nimrod Wildfire, my granny! Call him what you will, that’s old Crockett, that’s who it is! My half brother in New York has seen the play himself, and says it’s Crockett they’re portraying, and everybody knows it. They shout Crockett’s name from the audience, and make jokes about old Jackson! If ever I get the chance, I’ll go see that play.”

  The other man sat back and puffed out his chest. “I’ve knowed David Crockett personally.”

  “What? No! You’re a-lying!”

  “No, no I ain’t. It was many a year ago and he was but a child, but I knowed him, and was of help to him when he had been cheated and harmed by a man not worthy of the surname of Myers. It was as much out of pride in my name that I give young Crockett aid.”

  David all but leapt out of his chair. The speaker was none other than Henry Myers, the wagoner who had befriended him after Adam Myers stole his money and barred him from going to sea besides. Myers was far older now and had managed to lose his left eye somehow or another, but there was no question as to his identity. David gaped at him from the shadows, heart racing. He had an impulse to go to Myers and identify himself, and a simultaneous contrary one to leave matters exactly as they were. There were others here, and he didn’t want to become the center of a crowd’s attention today, not looking as weak and pallid as he did right now.

  “Myers, I don’t feel inclined to believe you, except I know you for an honest man,” the other said. “Where was it you met him?”

  “On the road in Virginia. He rode with me some and I was able to collect a bit of money for him to go home on. I’ve always felt prideful of that. I never had no notion I was helping a fellow bound for fame.”

  “Well, I’ll be! If I was you, I’d brag about that to everybody.”

  “I ain’t the bragging sort, you know.”

  “No, you ain’t. I’ll say that for you, Henry Myers. You ain’t the sort to brag.”

  David left that tavern without ever revealing his presence and identity to Henry Myers. Somehow it seemed best that way. As he rode in the rumbling, lumbering, westering coach, he mulled over the fact that Henry Myers had once again been of help to David Crockett, though he had no idea of it. His and his companion’s conversation had reminded David of his own prominence, and had made him realize that, despite being out of office, he was still very much a man in the public eye, a man people were proud to know. He was in reality what Nimrod Wildfire was in make-believe.

  He nodded resolutely, a decision made. He might be out of Congress now, but there would be another race—and in that race, by heaven, he would prevail! David Crockett would rise again … he would “go into the shining,” just like Uncle Jimmy’s dream-image had directed in his delirium. Who would have thought he would decipher meaning from a fevered dream? Sometimes a man’s destiny revealed itself in odd ways.

  He whispered the words to himself. “Go into the shining, David Crockett.” Just as, with the most appropriate natural symbolism, this coach was rattling west toward the splendor of the setting sun. Into the shining. He liked the sound of that very much.

  Chapter 45

  The Crockett Cabin

  Elizabeth Crockett took a sip of her tea, which had grown tepid and tasteless in the cup. She had brooded too long over it, leaving it untouched as she sat by the front window, looking out on the cold, snowy day, feeling miserable as she thought about the political comeback David had been planning since his lone journey east a year and a half ago, in 1831.

  She couldn’t help feeling the way she did, even though she believed she shouldn’t. After all, David was happy again, excited about life. Even now, he was off with John Wesley on what he called an “Indian-styled bear hunt,” just for the fun of it, knowing that soon he would be too busy with electioneering to enjoy many such diversions. What right did she have to begrudge his hope of reelection to his beloved congressional post? A wife had duties, after all, including the duty to support and submit to her husband, just like St. Paul himself taught right in the Bible.

  She sighed and slumped in her chair like a melancholy child. St. Paul and wifely duty notwithstanding, she did begrudge David his anticipated victory. The prospect of him once again holding a time-consuming office, once again being distracted from home and family and away for long months in Washington—this was hard to abide. She had grown accustomed to having him home. Her father had recently died, and the loss had been easier to bear simply because David was close by. She even found a kind of solace in the fact that David had been named co-executor, with her brother, of the Robert Patton estate.

  Now the coming election loomed like a shadow in Elizabeth’s mind. She hoped David would lose it … yet she believed he would not. It was just an intuition, but a persuasive one. David had the same anticipation, though of co
urse he held a much more positive attitude toward it. He was so confident that he was quite literally banking on a win. Just this morning Elizabeth had seen a copy of a letter he had written earlier in the month to a cashier of the Second Bank of the United States. He had asked for an extension of a loan, and reminded the banker that as a congressman he had voted in favor of the bank charter, and planned to do so again once reelected.

  Her mind jumped ahead to the next year at this time. She pictured herself alone, with David off in Washington City. The image was dreadful.

  Making it even worse were rumors that the Whigs had even bigger long-term plans for David than a mere congressional seat. There were whispers that he would be good material for a presidential candidate, perhaps as early as the next election. President! Elizabeth simply couldn’t imagine her husband in that role, any more than she could imagine herself First Lady. The very thought made her shudder, even as it obviously tickled David’s hungry ego.

  Well, she thought, I might as well resign myself. David has said many times that he believes he is destined to be remembered through the ages. If that’s true, then I mustn’t stand in his way, mustn’t … the devil with it!

  She stood, tossed the tea from her cup right across the floor—a major domestic offense had one of her children done it—and slammed the cup down on the table so hard it chipped. Putting on her coat and shawl, she walked out into the gray, snowy afternoon. It was a day perfectly matched to her state of mind. Huddling against the cold, she began walking with a hurried stride, even though she had absolutely nowhere to go.

  David Crockett had made his name as a bear hunter while still a young man. In the days he had been married to Polly Finley, he spent as much time as possible hunting bear. When politics had overtaken so much of his life, he was forced to cut back his hunting. He had missed it dearly, particularly when he was in Washington City and could most use the diversion.

  Today he and John Wesley were taking advantage of the winter’s day to hunt bear in a way David seldom did. Normally he hunted bear when they were active, using his hounds to sniff them down and corner them for the kill. But today he and his son had decided to follow the old method of the Cherokees and Creeks, who did most of their bear hunting in the winter when their quarry was hibernating. David had it in mind to fetch in a good bearskin this trip, and turn it into a rug for Betsy’s floor. And there would be plenty of good use to make of its oil and meat too.

  “Look there, Pap,” John Wesley said, pointing toward a rotted log that lay on a nearby creekbank. “There’s bear hereabouts for certain.”

  They approached the log and examined it. The rotted wood looked as if it had been burst apart from the inside, but what it really evidenced was a shredding by bears digging for grubs. This log had been pulled open sometime in the autumn.

  Scouting about farther, they found more evidence that bears had passed this way, including a mud-and-hair-plastered tree that was also lined with claw marks. It was a habit of bears to mark certain trees in this way; David believed it was a way the animals actually communicated with each other about the terrain.

  They headed into a wooded ravine and found a few old bear tracks and a beaten-down path leading toward a big hollow tree on the side of a ridge. David looked up at the tree and grinned. “There’s our bear tree, John. What you want to bet?”

  “Bet you’re right.”

  They advanced to the tree, David sniffing the air. There was a musky scent hereabouts of hide and hair, and on the tree were claw marks. Circling the tree, he examined its structure. This was just the kind of tree a bear loved for a good winter’s sleep. From evidence and intuition honed by experience, he felt certain that a healthy she-bear was hibernating up inside that big hollow trunk right now.

  “Check your rifle, and look about for a good perch in case we have to make for one, John,” he directed in a soft voice. “I’ll get the cane ready.”

  David tossed down a bundle of dry cane he had been carrying on his back, and pulled flint, steel, and punk from his pouch.

  When they were sure they were ready, they backed away from the tree. David put his hand to his mouth and made a very peculiar noise—an imitation of the sound of a distressed bear cub. He kept it up several minutes, and sure enough, a stirring noise began inside the tree and a bear’s snout poked out through a hole high up in the trunk.

  “There she is, Pap.”

  “I see her. You up to climbing, John?”

  “Light the cane. I’ll run her out.”

  David struck the flint and steel and set fire to the punk. Quickly, he set the cane to smoldering, and handed the smoking bundle to John.

  “I’ll boost you up.”

  John clambered capably up the trunk, careful to check the strength of each limb before putting down his weight, as this was a rotting and weak old tree. At last he neared the place where the bear had shown itself. By now it had withdrawn back inside.

  Finally the climber was near the top of the tree and the cane was putting out heavy smoke. Clinging hard to the trunk, John Wesley shoved the smoking cane into another hole in the tree and pushed it down toward the bear beneath.

  His intent was to scurry down before the bear was driven out of the tree, but this time the bear had a surprise in store. She surged out so quickly, she actually ruptured part of the trunk and almost knocked John Wesley from his perch. He let out a howl. The she-bear growled and swiped at him with her right paw. John howled and launched himself off the tree, falling feet first into a tangle of brush.

  The bear began descending, and David lifted his rifle, took careful aim—and missed. He lowered the smoking weapon, disbelieving. He had hardly ever missed a bear in his life, even when the shot was difficult. But he had missed this time, with the bear in good open view.

  “Grab your rifle, John!” he yelled, scrambling to reload while backing away at the same time. The bear, its fur scorched by the cane and its demeanor threatening, was almost to the ground.

  “I’m stuck!” John yelled. He was thrashing about in the middle of the thicket, unable to get out.

  David made a lunge for John’s rifle, which he had left leaning against another tree when he started his climb. The bear reached the ground at the same time. David grabbed the rifle, swung it up, cocked and fired—and missed again. It was astonishing! The bear came directly for him. Meanwhile, John finally disengaged himself from the brush.

  It was fortunate for David that he did, because his motion distracted the bear and made it divert toward John. He saw it coming and lurched clumsily to the left, barely missing another swipe of the paw. He dodged over to a young maple and climbed desperately until he was out of reach of the bear. Then he sat there, praying the bear wouldn’t climb up after him.

  It didn’t. Instead it turned back toward David, but by now he too was up in a tree. Fortunately, he had managed to bring up John Wesley’s rifle with him. His own lay on the ground where he had dropped it in haste.

  Now to reload—but he couldn’t. He had his own shot pouch, and it contained rifle balls too large for John’s smaller-bore gun. He sat there, feeling ridiculous while the bear paced back and forth beneath the trees, keeping both men trapped.

  “Throw me your shot pouch, John!” David yelled.

  John lifted the pouch strap over his head and tied it around the pouch itself. “Here she comes!” he hollered, and tossed it—short. It landed beneath David’s tree, and the bear immediately ripped it apart, scattering lead and shredded leather in all directions.

  David and son looked at each other, and smiled sadly. What else could they do? Neither felt any urge to go down and take on the she-bear with a knife or hatchet.

  “John, I believe we’re going to have to sit tight for a spell,” David said.

  “Believe we are, Pap.”

  And there they sat as the day went by and the evening came on. By dark the bear seemed bored with its double catch, and both Crocketts rejoiced when at last it wandered away. Descending their trees, they
gathered up their goods, stretched cramped limbs, and headed toward home.

  “We ain’t much at Injun hunting, are we? By the by, there’s no need to tell this tale to nobody, John Wesley,” David said. “It ain’t the kind of story I want getting out.”

  “Don’t worry,” John said. “I’ll claim you dropped down and chewed the dang bear’s head off if you want me to.”

  David actually thought about it a few moments. “No, no. Better not. I ain’t got no bear hide to show for evidence. We’ll just keep this one to ourselves, huh?”

  “So we will, Pap. Sometimes even a Crockett gets whupped, I reckon.”

  “Sometimes,” David agreed. “But he don’t stay treed for good. He always comes back, every time.”

  David cleared his throat. “Listen to this one, Betsy: ‘And it came to pass in those days when Andrew was chief Ruler over the Children of Columbia, that there arose a mighty man in the river country, whose name was David; he belonged to the tribe of Tennessee, which lay upon the border of the Mississippi and over against Kentucky.…’”

  “Heavenly days!” Elizabeth said. “It’s a mockery of the holy scripture itself, that’s what it is. I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

  “The holy scripture! It ain’t the holy scriptures he’s making fun of! It’s old Davy Crockett, your own dear beloved husband! Listen to this, farther down in it some … yes, there.” He cleared his throat again; his face was growing red, the way it always did when he got seriously worked up. “‘… and it came to pass’ … ah, forget that part, let me jump ahead, here … ‘Andrew and the wise men and rulers of the people were assembled in the great sanhedrin … David rose in the midst of them saying, men and brethren, wot ye not that there be many occupants of the river country on the west border of the tribe of Tennessee, who are settled down upon lands belonging to Columbia; now I beseech you give unto these men each a portion for his inheritance, so that his soul may be glad, and he will bless thee and thy posterity.’ Hear that, Betsy? Mocking my land bill work, that’s what it is.”