Crockett of Tennessee Page 40

  David’s declarations that his book was complete and always reliable were, of course, not fully true. In its pages he presented himself as more unsophisticated than he truly was, for the image of an unsophisticated man of native wisdom was attractive to those who mistrusted educated, silver-tongued politicians. David had played to such perceptions quite successfuly in the past, and now, thanks to Nimrod Wildfire and an abundance of colorful newspaper anecdotes about “Canebrake Davy,” the picture of Crockett as the Unschooled Everyman was all the more exploitable.

  For similar motives, subtle changes had been made in the Narrative’s presentation of David’s Creek War military record. For example, he failed to record some of his advances in rank. After all, for a man who was “common as a coon spoor in a barley patch” (not to mention a congressman who had supported the elimination of the highbrow military academy at West Point), it simply sounded better to portray himself as nothing but a common soldier, first to last. And since he was a well-known opponent of Andrew Jackson, it had seemed expedient to alter the record of the length of time he had volunteered for Creek War service and to present himself as a participant in, rather than a mere observer of, the “mutiny” attempted against Jackson by some of his disgruntled volunteer troops. David and the Whigs liked the notion of presenting the protagonist of the Narrative as a man unwilling to bow before “King Andrew” from the days the Fates had first thrown the two together. There were other little shifts of facts as well, all designed to give the reader the impression of Crockett as a hardworking, humble soldier who had done his duty, yet without letting General Jackson lord over him.

  One matter that David would not allow to be fully distorted or softened, despite the pleas of his political advisors, was the horror of the massacre at Tallusahatchee. Even though minor expunging was done at editorial insistence, he resolved that the worst of the horrors he had witnessed should remain. And they did, in gritty, unsoftened detail. He wrote of the old woman who had fired the fatal arrow from the doorway, only to die with “at least twenty balls blown through her”; and the Indians who were slaughtered “like dogs” inside the house she had guarded; and the wounded young Indian boy who had crawled beside the burning house with “the grease stewing out of him” from the heat; and the hungry soldiers eating potatoes baked in the cellar below that same burning house, potatoes that had cooked in the “oil of the Indians we had burned up on the day before” and which looked like they had been “stewed with fat meat.” David Crockett knew very well the hideousness of war and despised what had been done to Indian women and children in particular. He would not let the account of such a massacre be perfumed with rosewater and pawned off as a Sunday school picnic. He had stood up for the Indians on the floor of Congress; he would not cease to do so now.

  There were, however, plenty of matters having to do with individual personalities that David did not hold sacrosanct at all. Persius Tarr, of course, was absent or disguised throughout. And David portrayed his occasionally tense relationship with his father in a less truthful way than had Clarke’s Life and Adventures—though the episode of the drunken chase with the hickory pole remained intact. Clarke’s book had made that adventure too famous to be ignored.

  Then there was the matter of names. Many were left out either because they were forgotten, or seemed irrelevant, or simply because of a quirk in David’s personality that made him reluctant to publish them. He named few of his siblings and childhood companions. Absent also were the names of Amy Sumner and Margaret Elder, his first loves. More remarkable still, nowhere in the book did he call by name either of his wives, or any of his children by either marriage.

  Chilton had gently suggested that such omissions might seem astonishing and inexplicable to some readers, but David would hear no such arguments. He declared that his instincts told him it was right to leave the names out, and whenever he was sure he was right, by heaven, he always went ahead. It was his very motto, printed right on the frontispiece of the Narrative. Chilton shrugged and did it Crockett’s way, though he could still not see any sense in leaving out the names.

  Despite such trivial disagreements, both men were generally pleased with the book. Certainly it was sometimes uneven in its style, sometimes skipped several years in its chronology, had a few errors of dating and such brought on by the haste of its production, and included quite a few misspellings—David’s beloved old Quaker mentor John Canaday having become John “Kennedy,” for example—but as a political volume, it was an improvement over Life and Adventures, and because it was an autobiography, would surely supercede that earlier volume in popularity and authority … all the better for the Whigs.

  The Narrative done and off the press, David turned his attention to the next phase of the great Whig campaign of status-building: the Great Tour of the North and East.

  On the surface it was a simple promotional tour for the Narrative; in fact it was more a promotional tour for David Crockett himself. Plans were afoot for another book, shaped by Whig political interests, to be published the next year detailing events on the tour, and certainly the tour itself would expose the colorful and entertaining “Gentleman from the Cane” to many potential voters in the next presidential election. There were other books in consideration as well, to be written by others and credited to Crockett; a satirical, biting “biography” of current vice-president Martin Van Buren being one. Van Buren, despised by David Crockett, was expected to be the man upon whose shoulders Old Hickory’s mantle would fall.

  David was concerned that the tour would start while Congress was still in session. His absence from the floor would cause him to miss votes and certainly would be used as propaganda against him. “Don’t worry,” the Whig strategists reassured him. “The tour will be so grand, so splendid, that people will scarcely notice.” So he didn’t worry. When it came down to it, David Crockett was an overly trusting man, trusting to the point of being naive—just as Campbell Ibbotson had so often tried to warn him.

  He left Washington on April 25 with his entourage and traveled to Baltimore’s Barnum’s Hotel, dining there with some fellow Whigs before spending the night. He set out on the next day, dressed in gentleman’s clothing, his dark hair neatly parted in the center and combed back to expose whiskers grown down the sides of his face in the style that would later be called sideburns. He traveled by steamer across the Chesapeake, disembarked and took a train to Delaware City, returned to a steamer to travel up the Delaware River and on to Philadelphia.

  At each stop he had made, he was met by cheering crowds. He could tell that some were surprised to see the figure of a nicely clothed, fine-featured gentleman rather than a real-life, buckskinned Nimrod Wildfire, but if they were disappointed, their accolades didn’t indicate it. In Philadelphia he regurgitated one of the speeches prefabricated for him by Whig writers, then was driven to the United States Hotel, very heartened, and eager now for the rest of his tour.

  While in Philadelphia he made stops at prominent places such as a mint, asylum, waterworks, Navy Yard, school, theater, and the exchange, and delivered a fierce speech against Jackson. He was given a watch-chain seal engraved with his famed motto, and informed that he would later be presented with an excellent, ornamented rifle, courtesy of the Philadelphia Whigs. Very fine, he declared. A man from the cane always needs good weaponry.

  On April 29 he sailed up the Delaware, railroaded across New Jersey to Perth Amboy, and then ventured on to New York City. Ensconced in the American Hotel, he remained in New York until the afternoon of May 2, making speeches, greeting crowds, meeting dignitaries, and visiting important spots, including the Stock Exchange, where he fired off another rousing oratorical discharge of Whig propaganda.

  On May I he felt fatigued and sick to his stomach, making only a brief appearance at the Bowery Theatre. Had the event not been advertised in advance, he might have passed it up altogether. He returned to his room and took some extra rest, fearing his old malaria was about to recur. But the next morning he felt much
better, and jumped heartily back into action. He traveled to Jersey City to participate in a rifle shooting exhibition before heading back to New York to catch a steamer for Boston.

  Crockett and company stopped in Newport and Providence, and made it the rest of the way to Boston by stagecoach, arriving the afternoon of the third. Once again he was swept through tours and meetings. He was given a hunting coat in Roxborough, before heading to a Whig banquet that evening for another harangue against Jackson.

  For the next few days he continued touring the area, heading into Lowell for more gifts, banqueting, and speaking, returning to Boston on May 8. There he visited the home of the lieutenant governor, made a theater appearance, and on the ninth headed by stagecoach into Providence, Rhode Island; then shortly afterward to Camden, New Jersey. There he spoke to a large group, then boated to Philadelphia for another appearance there. On the thirteenth he was back in Baltimore, and after another public appearance, hopped on a Washington-bound stage. The tour was not over; it was merely in respite. When Congress concluded its session, David would head out on the final leg.

  He was tired but happy as he rode back into Washington. Long gone from his mind was the memory of his brothers, caught in a canoe on the Nolichucky River with the oar in the hands of someone else. So what if Whig leaders were steering his political canoe? They seemed to be doing a good job of it. Based on his reception at each stop, he was convinced that his popularity and potential were greater than he had previously thought. And gone was any sense of restraint in his attacks on Andrew Jackson. He had been speaking before receptive Whig audiences for days, and their vigorous cheers at his sallies against the President had rendered him fearless.

  Too fearless, some Whigs began to say. Too fierce a polemic against Jackson might blow up in their faces. But David didn’t listen. He was soaring now. There was no reason to descend.

  With a sense of reluctance, he returned to finish the session of Congress, and during the same period sat for a portrait by John Gadsby Chapman. He wasn’t much pleased with the initial version, a standard bust-type portrait that he said made him look like “a sort of a cross between a clean-shirted member of Congress and a Methodist preacher.” What would Chapman think about painting him as he might look on one of his bear hunts back in West Tennessee? That would be a picture worth looking at. The painter was pleased with the suggestion, and David set about looking for the right props and accoutrements.

  To Chapman’s surprise, David managed to scout out a dingy linsey-woolsey hunting shirt as well as leggings and moccasins—no small feat in the sophisticated city of Washington. He also rounded up what he called the “tools” of hunting: butcher knife, rifle, powder horn, bullet pouch, hatchet. David was insistent that his tools be placed in precisely the right order on his person: butcher knife in easy reach of his right hand, along with the horn and pouch, the hatchet placed on his left hip, shoved in handle first and placed far enough back not to interfere with the handling of his rifle. Posing full-body at semiprofile, his rifle cradled across his left arm, his wide-brimmed flop hat nestled on his head, with his long, dark locks flowing out from beneath it and down the back of his neck, David made an impressive sight—even if the years had added a few inches to what in youthful years had been a lean mid-section.

  But as the full-sized painting progressed, Chapman grew unhappy with it, yet could not say just why. David himself unwittingly provided the solution when he strode in one morning to pose and, in a show of high spirits, let out a loud whoop, raising his hat and waving it in the air. Chapman immediately realized what was lacking, and at once set out revising the painting to show the hat uplifted in David’s right hand. The result, with hunting dogs painted in around Crockett’s legs, was a grand-looking portrait with a cheery quality—Colonel Crockett in his element, looking grandiosely into the distance, hat uplifted as he greeted his future. It befitted the cheerful spirit David was showing these days. His fame was mounting, his prospects brightening, and the Narrative was already in its sixth printing.

  On June 29 the tour resumed. David rode by stagecoach for. Baltimore, arriving that evening. On the next day he was in Philadelphia, having traveled there by boat, and was put up again in the United States Hotel.

  The next evening he was presented with the rifle pledged to him on his first visit. It was a beautiful, octagon-barreled rifle, one he promptly dubbed “Pretty Betsey” to distinguish it from the rifle he actually used, simply “Betsey.” He also received various accoutrements for the rifle, a gleaming butcher knife, and a shining silver tomahawk with his name engraved in script on the head. He made a gracious thank-you speech and was given a cheer in response.

  The next day he traveled to Camden, New Jersey, and there fired off his new rifle a few times. When July Fourth came, he was in Philadelphia with a slew of senators, including the famed Daniel Webster. At the Music Fund Hall he joined other speakers, raging about the “tyranny” of Andrew Jackson. Later in the day he spoke again at another gathering, and at an even later theater appearance was called on to speak a third time. He did so with gusto, raging against Jackson at full boil until his voice was gone.

  On the fifth, David took his rest and received more gifts: gunpowder and a china pitcher. The next day he rode the train across Pennsylvania. His voice was still weak and hoarse, and when at one stop a glass was put in his hand and he was called upon to make a toast, he lifted the glass and rasped out: “God bless you, for I can’t.” But then, somehow, he managed to croak out one more speech.

  At Pittsburgh he boarded the Hunter and traveled down the Ohio river. By July 12 he was in Cincinnati; the next day he was on the move again, toward Louisville. There he stayed several days, making visits and speaking. Going into Indiana, he spoke at Jeffersonville Springs, and after embarking on the steamer Scotland, reached Mill’s Point.

  His son William was there, awaiting him, and they journeyed together toward Gibson County and home.

  The Great Tour was over. By now David was glad it was done, because he had grown very weary. But hadn’t it been grand! He had to smile when he recalled the cheering throngs, the famous hands shaking his, the gifts and flattering comments.

  Surely David Crockett’s glory-time had come. The future he surveyed ahead of him was a landscape bright with glory and fame, and across its broad distance, becoming ever more visible through the haze, loomed the image of the White House, home of his despised fellow Tennessean Andrew Jackson. Not for long, though, David told himself. Before long it would be the home of another man from Tennessee. David couldn’t picture it falling out any other way.

  Chapter 51

  In the fall of 1835, old John Crockett breathed his last, and David was made administrator of his will. Through his youth, David’s relationship with his father had been like a river that was smooth and tranquil at places, rocky and swift in others. Sometimes it had seemed to David that all he could remember were the rocky stretches, but now, with his father’s body laid under the soil, he remembered more of the good times: their hunts together, his father’s hands demonstrating the skills necessary to backwoods living, and the times John had actually bothered to praise one of his boyish achievements. He recalled the tears his father had shed the time he worked off the debt to John Canaday on his behalf, and the way in recent years that John had bragged to all who came within hearing distance about his famed congressman son. Now that John Crockett was gone, David wished he had taken more time to be with the old man in his later years. There had always been so much to do, so many distractions … no matter now. The past couldn’t be changed. John Crockett was gone, and David was going to miss him. He took comfort that his mother was still alive, living now about five miles away, with one of his sisters.

  Pondering his father, David wondered what was left of the man in his own person. He could see much of John Crockett in his brothers, but he had seldom thought much about what aspects of his father were incarnated in him. Did he have much of his looks, his temperament? Sadly, the one commo
n characteristic he could think of was a depressing one: both he and his father were lifelong companions to poverty. Fame and congressional power had done little to erase David’s debts. Even now David had to turn to a friend, William Tucker, to borrow about three hundred dollars before his return to Washington in November.

  Back in Washington, he was soon drawn into an effort to halt Andrew Jackson’s plan to make Martin Van Buren his political successor. A more popular name among the Tennessee congressional delegation was that of Knoxville’s Senator Hugh Lawson White, a handsome and dignified man held in esteem by the people. The effort, initiated by Jacksonian Democracts who didn’t favor Van Buren, eventually expanded to involve the Whigs as well, when Jackson held firm and would not relinquish Van Buren. White was thrust into the race as an independent, and Democrats who were secretly disgruntled with Jackson supported him. Meanwhile, members of the Massachusetts delegation put out Daniel Webster as another alternate candidate, and the Whigs rubbed their hands in glee at this dividing of Democratic forces, hoping the result would be loss of a Democratic majority in the presidential race, throwing it to the House of Representatives.

  David stayed busy in the anti—Van Buren effort, helping create a humorous parody letter that mocked Van Buren while pretending to praise him. And he turned attention as well to concerns of his constituents back home—Ibbotson having reminded him sternly that by becoming so distracted by political squabbles with the Jacksonians, he was on the verge of neglecting the duties he was actually elected to perform.