Crockett of Tennessee Read online

  Maybe all I ever was cut out to be was a man of the backwoods, a “gentleman from the cane,” a frontiersman like that pack train driver. I should have never come back here. I should have stayed in Tennessee with Betsy and the young ones, and been content with what I had.

  The thoughts came in a whitewater rush, overwhelming while they lasted. But then they passed. David stood, went to the fire, poked it up. Then he slumped back in his seat again and exhaled long and slow. Shaking his head, he chuckled, and said aloud, “Davy-boy, you surely let the fear get to you right then. You do that again and they’ll haul you off for scrap.”

  He poured himself another whiskey and drank it a little too quickly, but when it was down, he felt much better, though a little confused. He had never before experienced a burst of panic like that. What did it mean, if anything?

  Nothing, probably. Most likely it was all this background talk of David Crockett as presidential contender that had him worked up. That and simple weariness. What he needed was a good night’s sleep.

  He went to bed. Lord, how he wished Betsy were with him tonight! Sometimes a man needed the company of his woman, just for the comfort of it. But Betsy was far away, in Tennessee. Back at home.

  He wondered if she knew how much he loved her, how much he missed her. With the image of her face filling his mind’s eye, he rolled over and fell asleep.

  David’s evening of panicked doubt left its mark, but not permanently. For the two days following, he was nervous and unsure of himself. Several people asked if he was ill, and he made up excuses. He considered asking Ibbotson about what had happened, thinking maybe there was some medical cause behind it, but he finally decided not to. Ibbotson would only find some way to link it to his continuing warnings about letting the Whigs take control of his political destiny. So David threw himself into his work, and by the end of the third day had become so embroiled again in the busy life of a congressman that he all but forgot about the disturbing episode. When he did remember it, he laughed it off and attributed it to fatigue, cheap whiskey, and Ibbotson’s gloomy counsel.

  About a week later an event occurred that erased the last traces of his self-doubt. The Lion of the West, featuring the famous James Hackett, was playing at the Washington Theater, and he received an invitation to attend. His friends urged him to go. What a great scene it would be, Colonel Crockett face-to-face with Nimrod Wildfire!

  Wearing his best clothing—much finer garb than he had ever worn in the initial days of his first term—he made his way to the theater on the appointed night, and found well-dressed ushers awaiting him. With the theater management leading the way, he was led into the crowded auditorium … and the audience came to its feet, cheering and applauding. His name rose all around him, mixed with applause and whoops of delight. Despite a strong effort to maintain a modest expression, he could not restrain a broad smile. He was popular; his mere presence here was an event. Turning, he waved at the crowd, then seated himself in the reserved front-row seat.

  The lights fell; the curtain rose. But the usual opening scene—an apartment at the home of the New York merchant character, Mr. Freeman—did not present itself. Instead, James Hackett, wearing the buckskin garb and wildcat-skin cap of Nimrod Wildfire, the Kentuckian, stepped into the glow of the footlights and strode over to a position directly in front of the guest of honor. Doffing his hat, he made a slow, deep bow.

  David came to his feet and bowed in like fashion, and behind him the crowd burst into a frenzy of cheers and applause that surpassed what had come moments before. Turning again to face them, David beamed.

  You’ll know the glory only when the glory-time comes. Go into the shining, David Crockett, and shout your hallelujah! Jimmy Crockett’s words from that odd, malarial dream ran through his mind, and he wondered how he could have ever doubted himself. He belonged here. This was his city, his place, his destiny. Hand above his head, he waved for a full minute to the roaring crowd.

  No room in him for doubt and panic now! This must be the glory-time; this must be the shining. He had been born for this, and from here on out it could only get better, and better, and better still.

  Chapter 47

  Early January, 1834

  Thomas Chilton was a likable man, about ten years the junior of David Crockett and cut in some ways from the same cloth. Born in Garrard County, Kentucky, he knew the same breed of common people David had grown up among, and had a good grasp of backwoods speech. Like David, he had cut his political teeth in the legislature of his state, then had moved up to the United States Congress, serving one term but failing to win reelection to another. However, he had made a Crockettesque political comeback of his own and had been elected to the Twenty-third Congress. He was a staunch Whig and dedicated lawmaker. He was significantly more educated than David, having gone through the common schools and into the study, then the practice, of law. But most importantly to David Crockett and his fellow Whigs, Chilton was a capable, quick writer, and this above all had qualified him for the important task of ghostwriting an authorized, official campaign “autobiography” of Colonel David Crockett. It was a task David might have insisted should go to Campbell Ibbotson, if not for the distance that had developed between him and his former mentor.

  At the moment, Chilton was sitting on a couch in David’s quarters, notebook across his lap, quill and inkstand on a table beside him, a copy of The Life and Adventures of Colonel David Crockett of West Tennessee in his hand. He was very weary. It was late at night and the room was illuminated only by lamplight, so he frequently rubbed his eyes as he scanned the volume. His voice, lively and crisp-toned early in the evening, had declined to a soft, low rasp, and he asked many fewer questions than he had when this long work session began. He was ready to put this aside and call it a night.

  David, on the other hand, seemed as full of vigor as ever. Since the pair had finished their supper hours ago, David had paced the room, airing his complaints with the contents of Life and Adventures, and instructing Chilton in detail about how he wanted his autobiography to vary from it. Chilton was doing his best to form David’s comments into a semblance of an outline, but weariness was beginning to get the best of him and he was growing confused by the barrage of details. One thing there was no confusion about: David Crockett had a boundless reserve of energy. Chilton wondered how he did it.

  And another thing was abundantly clear too: David was not at all happy about the Life and Adventures volume. Not that he could rightly put much blame on its author, since most of the information in the book had come from David himself, a fact David didn’t deny to Chilton. Of course, he did plan to deny it to the public, right in the preface of his ghostwritten autobiography. The more distance between himself and the earlier biography, the better.

  But certainly David did know the Life and Adventures author, just as Chilton himself and every other congressman knew him. Behind the pseudonymous name on the copyright page was Mathew St. Clair Clarke, House of Representatives clerk, who had published the book out of a Cincinnati publishing house in 1833, after interviews with David. The book had grown very popular both in its original form and in a version that had come out sometime later under the new title of Sketches and Eccentricities of Colonel David Crockett of West Tennessee.

  Despite his complicity in the book’s production and the flattering interest in him it had generated, David Crockett disliked the way it presented details of his life that he felt were not politically attractive. And despite a talltale tone of voice, the book was sometimes a little too honest about such matters as David’s sometimes strained relationship with his father back in boyhood.

  Chilton rubbed his eyes yet again, and laid the notebook aside. Exhaustion overcame pride. Standing, he stretched and yawned. “Colonel, I’m afraid my energies fail me,” he said. “I’ll be of no further use to you tonight.”

  The Tennessean turned, looking surprised, then smiled apologetically. “Mr. Chilton, I’m afraid I’ve been right thoughtless, rattling on to such
a late hour. I’ve put a lot of concern in this book of ours. But you’re right. There’s a time for work and a time for sleep.”

  Chilton gathered his materials. “I’m determined to make this as good a book as we can put together at such a hurried pace, Colonel. The sooner we can get it onto the market, the sooner we can begin reshaping the public perception of you as a more, shall. I dare say, presidential figure. It will be essential to get you reelected in ’thirty-five if the party is to do greater things with you.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Good evening, Colonel Crockett.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Chilton.”

  Late night was far colder than early evening had been, and Chilton shivered badly as he strode down the dark street. He wasn’t fond of walking in Washington late at night. He was a sensitive-hearted man, and the beggars and stragglers that haunted the shadows roused his sympathy and made him feel powerless. How could one man help such unfortunate souls? It was partly to overcome this sense of helplessness that Chilton had turned his eye toward politics.

  His eye caught a movement to his left. He shifted his gaze that way and saw a man approaching, wrapped in a heavy cloak. He was bearded and wore a broad-brimmed hat that drooped low over his eyes. A beggar, surely—or a street robber. Chilton steeled himself, just in case.

  “Good evening to you, sir.”

  “Good evening.” Chilton noted to himself that the man had spoken with a rough backwoods accent much like Crockett’s.

  “There’s something I’d like to ask you, sir—”

  Chilton reached for his money purse. “How much do you need?”

  The man, whose face remained hidden in the darkness below the front brim of his hat, shook his head. “No, no, it’s not money I want.”

  Chilton was surprised. He had never encountered a beggar wanting anything else. “What, then?”

  “Information. I’m seeking the residence of Colonel Crockett of Tennessee.”

  Immediately Chilton felt wary. Who was this man, and what was his business? Crockett was to some a controversial figure, and there were people in the world radical or senseless enough to assassinate politicians who offended them. Certainly this cloaked, shadowed figure perfectly fit the stereotype of the assassin.

  “Are you a friend of Crockett’s?”

  “You might say that. A friend from young days.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you know his living place? I’m thinking it might be that building you came out of.”

  Chilton decided he couldn’t chance telling the truth to this man. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “That’s not his place?”

  “You’ll have to ask someone else.”

  The dark figure held silence a moment, then turned away.

  “Sir!” Chilton said.

  The man looked back over his shoulder, his face still shadowed. “What?”

  “If I should chance to ever meet Colonel Crockett, might I tell him the name of the man looking for him?”

  “Yes. Tell him Persius Tarr has come to call. I’ll find him, sooner or later.”

  “Persius Tarr. Very well.”

  “Do you know Crockett?”

  “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen most members of Congress. It’s a small enough city, after all.”

  The dark man grunted agreement.

  “Well … good evening to you, Mr. Tarr.”

  “Evening.”

  The dark figure walked away, vanishing into the night. Chilton shuddered and huddled in his coat, then went on his way at a faster pace, unnerved and tense. He had an impulse to go back to Crockett and tell him what had happened here, in case the man was a threat. But he was eager for the safety of his own residence, and if Colonel Crockett had ever known this Persius Tarr, it must have been a casual and unimportant association. Otherwise the odd name would have been mentioned in Life and Adventures, or in the colonel’s own biographical dictations.

  Chilton hurried on, feeling guilty about not returning to warn his colleague, but not guilty enough to stop. Next time he talked to Crockett, he would mention this Persius Tarr, just in case. That would be good enough.

  He reached his boardinghouse. Within ten minutes he was in bed, sleeping soundly and dreaming his way through the life of Colonel Crockett.

  “Tarr?” David said. He frowned and shook his head. “Tarr … no, no. I have no recollection of such a name, and it’s not the kind of name I’d likely forget.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Chilton replied. “Well, sir, I don’t know whether to be relieved or concerned. There certainly is a man in this city who claims that name, and he’s making an active search for you. I mistrusted him enough that I didn’t give him any indication that this was your residence. The trouble is, he already had that information from elsewhere.”

  David frowned and rubbed his chin. He was putting on a display of mild concern, but in truth he was straining not to shake visibly. Persius—here in Washington! It was a terrible development. He had no desire to see Persius at all, and much less of a desire that his past friendship and association with him should come out. Persius was a murderer, a deserter, the kind of man who could ruin a rising politician.

  “I admit a bit of worry about this,” David said. “But I have to wonder why he hasn’t shown up here between the time he spoke to you and now. That was two nights ago.”

  “I don’t know, Colonel. Maybe he’s shy a few bricks up here”—Chilton tapped his head—“and has just wandered off. You’re a famous man now; there’s a lot who would like to claim friendship with you.”

  “I suppose.” David paused, then said, in as careless a manner as possible, “Mr. Chilton, are there rooms available in your own boardinghouse? I haven’t been pleased with these here quarters anyhow, and if there’s some madman roaming around and asking about me, maybe it would be the sensible thing to move. Besides, it would make it right easier for us to get together on this book of ours.”

  “Well, there are some rooms vacant, I think. I could inquire.…”

  “Would you do that? I’d be grateful to the backbone.”

  Chilton grinned at that typical kind of Crockett expression. “I’ll ask today.”

  “Very good, Mr. Chilton. You’re a prime sort of man, you are, even if you do hail from Kentuck. I tell you what—I’ll give you a signed draft, and if the rooms are clear and look good to you, go ahead and sign in whatever amount they name, long as it’s within reason, and I’ll make the move right off.”

  Chilton left and was back within two hours, informing David that the transaction was complete. David was already mostly packed, having few possessions of his own here. The furniture came with the room.

  Chilton and David made two treks from one boardinghouse to the other, and that was all it took to make the move. David was generously grateful, even offering Chilton money for his help, but Chilton declined it, and headed into town toward the Capitol for a meeting for which he was already late.

  He pondered the situation as he walked. It had seemed to him that Crockett had reacted when he first mentioned the name of Persius Tarr, but had striven to cover it up. Certainly he was more nervous about the man than he had let on. Why else would he actually change residences on such short notice? There was something very odd about this, something the colonel was hiding. It roused the curiosity of Chilton as biographer—but Chilton as loyal Whig had a different view. If there was some dark secret in Crockett’s past involving this Tarr fellow, perhaps it was politically expedient that it remain secret. This curious behavior of Crockett’s couldn’t derive from mere fear of an unknown potential assassin. Colonel Crockett had his faults, like any man, but Chilton knew that cowardice was not among them. Crockett was as fearless a man as he had ever known.

  Yet he had been shaken by the very name of Persius Tarr. Why? Was there a chance that Crockett might explain the matter, if he was questioned in just the right way and with promises that the answer would be kept confidential?

  That rai
sed a new thought. Maybe the Whigs did need to know what was going on here. If there was some scandal from Crockett’s past that this Tarr knew about, it could do great damage to Crockett and the Whig cause. Perhaps this mysterious man was a blackmailer! Perhaps he—

  Chilton shut off his thoughts and chuckled at himself. One mysterious night meeting with an odd man on a Washington street, and he was building up notions of conspiracies and scandal and blackmail. His imagination was getting the best of him. Chilton decided to put the matter to rest. If Crockett had something to say about Persius Tarr, he would say it. If not, then it wasn’t anyone else’s business. That was how Thomas Chilton resolved to look at it from here on.

  David sat up in bed, confused and unsure about what had awakened him. Then he heard it again: a hammering on his door. He cranked up his low-burning bedside lamp and glanced at the watch lying by the lamp. Three o’clock in the morning! He slid open a drawer and removed the little flintlock pistol he always kept handy. Rising, he crept toward the door.

  God help me, it’s Persius out there, I know it is. Who else would come at such an hour?

  “Who’s there?”

  “Officer William Keener, sir, policeman. Have I found Colonel David Crockett?”

  The voice certainly wasn’t that of Persius Tarr. David slid back the latch, turned the lock, and cracked open the door. A wall-mounted lamp burned dimly in the hall, illuminating an apologetic-looking uniformed policeman.

  “Colonel? I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir, but do you mind if I come in?”

  “No … but hold up a minute and let me put on some clothes. I’m naked as a hop-toad.”

  David closed the door and quickly dressed himself in trousers and shirt. He put away the pistol, lit a second lamp, and ushered in the policeman.