Crockett of Tennessee Page 5

  “I hope Jimmy can get free, Pap,” David said. “I’d like to see what he looks like.”

  “So would I, David.” John’s voice sounded slightly slurred. He paused thoughtfully, hiccuped beneath his breath. “It’s been a slew of years since last I seen him. A whole slew of years.”

  John Crockett put the team in motion, and turned the wagon across the center of the street. They headed back the way they came, riding too close to the side of the road and forcing David to duck branches. They passed Greer’s store, and David looked for Persius, but didn’t see him. As they went out of town and back toward Cove Creek, David felt a mix of sadness and excitement, the former because of Persius, the latter because of Jimmy Crockett.

  A few days later, the following was recorded in Greene County court records:

  Ordered that Persius Tarr an orphan be bound to Robert Hanks until he shall attain the age of eighteen years to learn the trade of blacksmith, said orphan to be eleven years of age the third day of December next. One dollar paid.

  Three weeks passed, and a notice was posted on the wall of the courthouse, with copies on the notice boards of the various taverns and ordinaries throughout the county:

  Notice given and recorded by Robert Hanks of Warrensburg that the orphan Persius Tarr, bound to him by the court, has fled in violation of his binding and is declared delinquent. Reward of one dollar offered by victim for return of said orphan Persius Tarr.

  The Crocketts never saw the notice of Persius’s flight. By then their cabin on Cove Creek was empty and the old mill was abandoned, to be scavenged by others for its logs. John Crockett had packed his family and goods onto the wagon, set his sons to driving the livestock, and had gone farther west, into Jefferson County, to a new home in a small, borrowed cabin. He had abandoned his dream of being a miller at the same time he abandoned his cabin and ruined mill. He dreamed a new dream now, that of being a tavern operator and innkeeper. As for Rebecca, she was heavy with child and heavier still with the responsibility of caring for those she already had. She had given up on dreams of her own long ago. As long as there was a roof above and food in the pantry, she would ask for nothing else.

  Chapter 6

  Autumn 1794

  Firelight flickered across the hearth and illuminated the brown face of John Crockett, who was seated on a stool, a musket across his lap, and cleaning cloth, oil, and brush at his feet. The musket was a beautiful weapon, a Brown Bess that he had brought back from the King’s Mountain campaign in 1780, when he and a rough-hewn army of his fellow “over-the-mountain” frontiersmen had beaten back the threat of Patrick Ferguson and his loyalist force, saving their home region from likely invasion and thus turning the tide of the war in the south. The musket was the one relic John Crockett had brought back, and he had pampered it ever since, though he seldom found it useful.

  The Brown Bess was a heavy, smooth-bored weapon, designed in the days when British Redcoats fought from tight ranks, laying down a barrage of simultaneous fire in a battle style that depended more on the sheer mass of fire than individual accuracy. John Crockett had tried hunting with the musket a time or two, then had given it up for his more trusty and accurate rifle. “You have to aim that blasted Bess a good five, six inches above your target to hit it beyond two hundred paces,” he complained. “A man has to stand right on a critter to hope to hit it.”

  Despite his complaints about it, John Crockett truly loved his musket. Men of the backwoods had few possessions kept sheerly for the pleasure of ownership, and therefore pampered whatever treasures they had. He regularly cleaned the Brown Bess, shined it up, and hung it back on its pegs, where it would usually remain untouched until the next cleaning a couple of weeks later.

  David, somnolent from the whirring of his mother’s spinning wheel and the lulling heat of the fire, through drooping lids watched his father’s concentrated work on the musket. John Crockett’s intent expression hazily called to David’s mind some previous time when he had seen him work with that same exact expression of seriousness. When had that been? David searched his recollections. Yes, now he remembered.

  It had been at the second of the Crockett homes in Greene County, ten or so miles north of Greene Courthouse, and about this same time of year, when the wild grapes were ripe. David’s uncle, Joseph Hawkins, brother of Rebecca Crockett, had come by the cabin about midday, poking around for a free meal in the midst of a day’s deer hunting. Afterward he had trudged off into the woods again, rifle over his shoulder, heading across a ridge that divided the Crockett place from the land of a neighbor.

  David was hauling in an armload of firewood when he heard the crack of his uncle’s rifle beyond the ridge. “Uncle Joe’s brought down a deer, Mama,” he called into the cabin. “I seen a whole bunch of them on the ridge this morning.”

  Then another sound assailed his ear: Uncle Joe yelling wildly, as if in panic. David dropped the wood in the doorway. “Mama, something’s wrong with Joe.”

  The yelling continued. Rebecca, dusting cornmeal from her hands onto her apron, came away from the stove. “Lord a’mercy, it sounds like he’s flaxing toward us right fast! I hope a bear ain’t chasing him!”

  David had a fear of bears in those days. He suffered nightmares about them quite often. Rebecca’s speculation scared him speedily into the cabin, where he stood and peered out the door from behind her skirts.

  Uncle Joe came tearing over the hill, his moccasins kicking up leaves. “Lordy, Rebecca, oh Lordy! Where’s John? Where’s John?”

  David looked for the bear. He didn’t see one. Maybe it was something else that had Uncle Joe so worked up. He hoped so.

  Rebecca said, “What’s wrong, Joe? I don’t know where John is—”

  “I’ve shot a man, Rebecca! I took him for a deer amongst the ’possum grapes. Lord, Lord, I’ve kilt him sure!”

  David’s eyes grew big; his mother’s face blanched. “Who is it, Joe?”

  “I don’t know—he was yonder over the ridge, a-picking grapes.…”

  “David, run for the field there, and see if your father is about.”

  David took off at a lope, but had not gone a hundred yards before he heard his father’s voice calling from the opposite direction. He stopped and turned his head to see John Crockett trotting in from the orchard. David pivoted on his heel and came back.

  By now Uncle Joe had told his tale again. David’s father’s face grew tight and dark-looking. He went into the cabin and came out with a handful of cloth rags. “Take me to him, Joe.”

  The men headed off over the ridge. David turned a pleading eye to his mother. She bit her lip, faltered, then said, “Go on, then.”

  He ran over the hill, and found them there. His father had just dragged the shot man out of the grape thicket, and Uncle Joe was standing there looking like he might cry. David thought that quite a novelty; he had never seen a grown man shed tears, and had wondered if that was even possible.

  “This is my neighbor—his name’s Mortimer Cade,” John Crockett said. “He’s alive, Joe.”

  He laid open the shirt. David’s eyes bugged. There was blood all over Cade’s midsection, bright and liquid and ever replenishing from a hole on the lower left side of his torso. David swallowed; his stomach was making uncomfortable threats. There was blood under the man too, lots of it.

  John Crockett brought out one of the rags, a silken handkerchief. He poked it into the bloody hole, pushed it in farther, farther, then put his hand behind and took hold of something. The cloth vanished suddenly into the bullet hole, and came out, bright with blood, on the other side.

  “I declare, he’s shot clean through!” John Crockett said. “The ball come out the back. I doubt he’ll live, Joe.”

  The memory, almost forgotten moments before, now was stark again. David stirred by the fireside. “Pap, you remember Mr. Cade, who got shot by Uncle Joe?”

  John Crockett kept on polishing the stock of the Bess. “I remember him.”

  “Did he die?”
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br />   “No, son. He’s yet living, though Lord only knows how he made it through. I was worried about him—he looked nigh dead a-lying there.” John smiled slightly. “Of course, you did too, after I pulled that silk through him. You fainted out stiff as a log.”

  David ducked his head, embarrassed. He had no real memory of having fainted that day. All he could recall was seeing the handkerchief pushed through the wound, then opening his eyes to find himself back inside the cabin.

  “Somebody riding in outside, Pap,” Wilson said, coming to his feet and laying aside the axe handle he had been whittling.

  John stood and set the musket against the wall. He went to the window and looked out, then stepped rapidly to the door, lifted the bar, and threw the door open. “Will!” he called into the darkness. “Is that you I see out there?”

  “Why, yes it is, John. How you faring? Hello there, Rebecca!”

  “It’s Uncle Will!” Betsy shouted.

  The Crocketts crowded outside to meet Will Crockett, brother of John and a resident of the Dumplin community, some miles to the southwest. Will grinned and tousled the heads of the younger ones, shook hands with the older ones. He saw the baby bundled in Rebecca’s arms, and grinned widely.

  “The new one’s come! I had nary a notion! Is it boy or gal?”

  “A girl,” Rebecca replied. “We’re calling her Sally.”

  “She’s pretty as a wall picture.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is she hardy?”

  “Very fine and strong, thank the Lord.”

  “Will, what in heaven’s name brings you this many miles?” John asked. “Is everything well in your home?”

  “Very well. I’ve come with good news.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” Will Crockett turned and called back into the darkness. “Mr. Fletcher?”

  A second rider came into view. David recognized him at once: Fletcher, the Indian trader from the tavern in Greene Courthouse.

  “I told him to stay back until you knew it was me, us coming in at night and all,” Will said. “Mr. Fletcher has come to give good news about our brother Jimmy. Jimmy truly is alive, John, and now in the hands of a French-born Injun trader name of Beaulieu.”

  John said, “Praise be.” He looked past Will. “Hello, Mr. Fletcher.”

  The frontiersman nodded his greeting.

  “How did Mr. Fletcher come to you, Will? I was looking for him to come to me.”

  “Sheer chance and fortune, John. He come asking about for ‘Mr. Crockett’ and got hisself sent to the wrong one. If you’ll let a weary brother inside your door, I’ll be happy to tell it all.”

  “Come in, come in indeed,” John said. “I’m anxious to hear it. Wilson, David, see to their horses, and give them grain. Come in, Mr. Fletcher. Come in and let me see what I can find to put some fire in your bones this evening.”

  “Sounds right good, Mr. Crockett,” Fletcher said. He nodded toward Rebecca and touched his hat. “Good evening to you, lady.”

  “Good evening, sir. Welcome to our home.”

  David and Wilson worked as fast as they could with the horses, stripping off the saddles, feeding the horses, and brushing them down in a mad rush. They were eager to return to the cabin and hear the news. An uncle they had never known, an uncle made all the more fascinating by the limitations nature had given him, not only was alive, but was seemingly available for return. It was a miracle, sure as the world. It could be nothing less.

  Late December, 1794

  The precipitation that struggled down through the bare treetops seemed uncertain whether to take form as rain or snow, and alternated between the two. Mud clotted the hooves of the horses, and a cold wind sliced against the faces of their three riders.

  “How far now?” Will Crockett asked Fletcher, who rode at the lead.

  “Not quite a mile,” Fletcher answered. “We’ll go through yonder valley, then north. The post is up on a rise; you’ll see it as soon as we pass the hill.”

  They went on then in silence. John Crockett’s coat was threadbare and too thin for the weather; he shivered badly. Will was better-suited and rode in a casual slump, not fighting the cold. As for Fletcher, he was a man who spent much time in travel, and his lean form fit his horse like it had been specially designed for it. He didn’t seem to notice the cold at all.

  The last half mile was the hardest because the trail was poor and made worse by the weather. The horses strained hard to maintain their pace, heaving and steaming in the cold. Only the single riderless horse, saddled in readiness for the hoped-for Jimmy Crockett, had it relatively easy.

  A ridge at their left leveled toward the valley, and when the riders passed the base of it, their destination came into view.

  They halted the horses, letting them rest. Will Crockett leaned over and spat tobacco amber, then squinted as he investigated the conglomeration of hillside structures to which they were about to go. “A man couldn’t have built an uglier mess of huts had he set out to do it,” he commented. “What slapped that place together, Fletcher? A whirlwind?”

  Fletcher said, “Beaulieu throwed it up hisself. He ain’t much for pretties and such. Long as his roof will shed water, that’s all that matters.”

  “You talk like you know this Beaulieu right well for a man you never met before the summer,” John said.

  Fletcher turned a cold eye on him. “You trying to call my word into question, Crockett?”

  “Just talking, that’s all. Just saying what comes to my mind.”

  Fletcher scratched his beard, never taking his eyes off John. “If I was a man who judged folk by their manner, I’d say you don’t trust me, Crockett.”

  “I don’t know you, Fletcher. All I know is you tell us this Beaulieu has our brother and will sell him free. If that proves out true, then I’ll trust you.”

  Fletcher cut himself a chew of tobacco. “I won’t fault that. I can respect caution in a man, Crockett. It can save his hide when the pinch gets tight.” He looked up the slope. “Yonder’s Beaulieu, peeping out the window at us.” Fletcher waved twice in the air, then turned his hand from side to side three times. “There. Now he knows it’s me. We can ride on in.”

  Fletcher took the lead again. John glanced at his brother and signaled him to pause before falling in behind. Fletcher gained several yards’ lead, and John said softly, “I don’t trust him, Will. I’ve come to believe he’s been lying to us all along.”

  Will looked puzzled. “You surely seemed to believe him on the front end of it all. What’s changing your mind?”

  “Little things, like him knowing this Beaulieu better than he lets on. And his way. His look. Rebecca, she didn’t trust him the first time she seen him. Told me that herself. And she’s a good judge of a human being. Rebecca can read a man like he was news hung on a store post.”

  “You place too much confidence in that woman, John. You always have.”

  Fletcher turned in the saddle. “You’ uns aiming to camp back there?”

  “We’re coming, Mr. Fletcher,” Will called up. “Go on. We’re right behind.”

  In single file they plodded up the slope toward the cluster of log buildings, their tired horses moving more eagerly now, in their dim way knowing from experience and instinct that habitations meant grain, water, shelter. They rode to the front of the largest structure. John looked around, brows lowered. Every now and then he came upon places he didn’t like from the first look, places that touched his nerves like a cold hand and made him cautious. This was one such place.

  “Gentlemen, we’ve arrived,” Fletcher announced. “Let’s go have a talk with Mr. Beaulieu.”

  Chapter 7

  A short, plump man came to the door and stepped out, grinning a grin made dark by absence of teeth. “Mr. Fletcher!” he said in a voice that betrayed his French origin. “Entrez, good man, and bring your friends!”

  “Howdy, Mr. Beaulieu,” Fletcher said. “These here is the Crockett brothers.”

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sp; “Ah, oui! Enchanté de faire votre connaissance! We have business, do we not? Much to discuss!”

  “You have our brother here, Fletcher tells us,” John Crockett said.

  “Oui, my friends. So I believe. Come in and we will talk our business.”

  “Where is Jimmy?”

  “He is here, you shall see him. But first, some whiskey, no? Il neige! Brrrr!” Beaulieu wrapped his arms around himself and made an exaggerated show of shivering.

  “We don’t need whiskey, just our brother,” John said.

  Will stepped forward. “No need to be biggety, John. Mr. Beaulieu, we’ll gladly share a cup with you.”

  “Bon! I am pleased. Entrez, please … come in.”

  “It’d help, sir, if you’d talk American instead of them Frenchy words,” John said.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Crockett. It is a difficult habit to overcome. Je regrette.” Beaulieu slapped his brow with the heel of his hand. “I have done it again! You see what I mean, eh? I will try. I will try.” Beaulieu entered the building with a grand flourish. The others followed. As they entered, Will flashed John a subtle frown that wordlessly urged a little more concern for diplomacy, a quality John Crockett often disregarded.

  The inside of the trading post, so poorly stocked that half its shelves were empty, stank and was dark and damp. Beaulieu waved his hand to display the place, as if he was actually proud of it.

  The whiskey was stored in an enclosed cabinet with a store-bought lock. Beaulieu told them he had made the liquor himself, and it wasn’t bad. He toasted the two brothers twice, and Fletcher once, grinning widely all the while and still mixing French with his English. After the third toast, John Crockett swiped his hand across his mouth and said, “Well, let’s get to trading. We want to see our brother … if it really is him.”