There were many Indians in the timber, and sometimes they came to Davy’s clearing, and watched with vague forebodings the gleam of the axe and the tender green of the springing grain. Their traditions were full of the untrammelled freedom of the wilderness, of the plentiful supplies of game and mast, of rivers alive with fish, on whose banks the beaver and otter were scarcely afraid of those who wore the splendid peltries of their kind. When they turned from the scene towards the solitude of the wilderness, their hearts were sad, for the knell of their race resounded through their ancient temples, built by the Great Spirit, whose aisles were rows of stately oak and pine, whose arches of living green were hung with golden blossoms of the tulip-tree and the fiery clusters of the trumpet-vine. There was no sentiment in the heart of the pioneer, who classed the Indian, the wolf, and the moccasin of the steaming swamp, as equally worthy of extermination.
When the corn had started, Davy made his way back to Shoal Creek, and from there to Nashville to attend a special session of the Legislature. With his three dollars per diem in his pocket, he returned to the scene of his disasters, and as soon as possible started with all his family for the clearing on the Rutherford Fork of the Obion, where Harris was working out his own salvation with axe and fire, while keeping the “varments” out of the Crockett corn. It was some time in the fall of 1822 that the wearied family came in sight of the rude cabin that was to be their home. Most of them had tramped the one hundred and fifty miles across the trackless land, for upon the horses were loaded the household effects and wearing apparel that Davy still owned. The loom, the wooden trencher, spare clothing, table utensils, and a few rude dishes were about all that the pioneer thought necessary in these days, always excepting the priceless ammunition and the guns.
The small clearing of six to eight acres that Davy had made, a quarter of a mile east of the Fork, could only partly feed so many mouths, and the task of supporting his family would have been desperate, had it not been for the supply of game that could always be counted upon. The river and the lakes were full of fish, and when the meat for the winter had been cured or salted down, there was always a good chance of getting more if needed. When Davy had harvested his crop of corn, in the last of October, 1822, he set out for the usual fall hunt. The buffalo had already disappeared from that vicinity, and he never saw one of these ponderous animals until he was on the way to the Alamo, in the last year of his life. Of all other wild “varments,” as he termed them, the woods were full.
When Christmas approached Davy’s supply of powder ran low, and he determined to cross the Fork and go to the home of a brother-in-law who had settled six miles west, and who had brought with him a keg of powder for Davy. The river was full of slush ice, and was out of its banks, as when Davy first saw it, but the determination to have powder for the usual Christmas fusillade, and the fact that they were out of meat, overruled his wife’s argument that they might as well starve as to have him drown or freeze. With his gun and hunting tools, and a few extras in the way of clothing, he started through the deep snow that had fallen, and waded across half a mile of flooded ground, until the main channel was before him. This he crossed on a log that lay from bank to bank, but farther on he came to a slough which was wider than the river itself, though he had always been able to cross it on another log. This was entirely under water, but he recognized its location by the sapling that stood beside it. By cutting another long sapling and lodging it against the first, he managed to use the submerged log as a bridge, and reached an island, now under water in the slough. Again wading for a long distance, he crossed another slough part way on a floating log, but fell off it when it turned over with him. He waded out of the water, which was nearly up to his head, and when he got to solid ground, put on the dry clothing which he had held, with his rifle, above the water. He says that after he had done this and had hung the wet clothing on the bushes, he had no feeling in his flesh. He tried to run to warm himself, but could scarcely move his feet.
When he got to his brother-in-law’s cabin, he thought the smell of the fire the best thing he had ever known. The next morning was piercing cold, and he stayed there to hunt, killing two deer for the family. The third day he decided to return, hoping that the ice had frozen so as to help him cross the still places in the sloughs. But time after time he broke through, and when he reached the sloughs and the river he had to go through the same performance as he had when he first crossed them—a feat made even harder by having to cross first with his gun, and then go back for the powder-keg. The ice had been broken as if a bear had gone across, and he at once fresh primed his gun, so that he was ready to “make war upon him,” if he appeared. When Davy reached his home, he was hailed as one risen from the dead. He learned that the ice had been broken by a man sent after him by his distressed wife, who had given up hope of his ever returning. He concludes this incident by saying: “I wasn’t quite dead, but mighty nigh it; but I had my powder, and that was what I went for.” This impatience at delay was one of Davy’s traits. He might easily have managed to subsist until the falling of the water, or until the ice was strong enough to bear him, but he couldn’t wait. It is a sure thing that he celebrated Christmas with a part of the dearly-earned powder.
[X.]
THE ELECTION
Hunting in the “harricane”—His dream of a big black “nigger”—His dogs bark up the wrong tree—A bear as big as a bull—Davy’s trip to Jackson—Meets some former comrades-in-arms—His name again suggested for the Legislature—He becomes a candidate in hunting coat and coon-skin cap—He is elected a member from his new district—Votes against Jackson’s friend for United States Senator—Old Hickory puts a mark opposite Crockett’s name—In the next election Davy is defeated by Jackson’s influence—Returns to farming again.
Davy Crockett in his time was celebrated as the greatest bear-hunter that ever lived. The story of one of his hunts was probably read by almost every man, woman, and child, of his generation, in Tennessee. His own version is by far the best, and is now given word for word as he wrote it. First let the reader understand that Davy’s cabin was near the Rutherford fork of the Obion, on the east side, and just below the “harricane,” where either a great wind-storm or a not uncommon earthquake had laid most of the timber flat. East of the cabin, five or six miles, was the middle or main fork of the Obion. A look at the map will show very nearly the location of his home. The hunt began the morning after he had secured his precious keg of powder. Davy’s story is as follows: