“That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.”
In the summer of this year the people of Vicksburg rose against the gamblers, thieves, and slave-stealers that had become as fierce and daring as the fabled vampires of the Persian vales. Some they hanged, some they told to “stand not upon the order of their going,” while others without warning had taken a wise departure, heading toward the unsettled frontiers, especially Texas, as havens of refuge and fields for future operations. Side by side with sturdy settlers, seeking homes on Texas soil in defiance of Santa Anna’s edict, went the wandering pirates of Barataria Bay and Galveston Island, followers of Lafitte. They scented battle afar off, and added fuel to the beacon-fires of revolution that blazed along the Rio Grande.
When the time came for his return to Washington, Davy left for that city with regret that he could not try the new rifle along the banks of the Obion. He entrusted his political affairs to his friends, and went back to oppose Jackson, regardless of the consequences, which he had no idea would ever become serious.
Before Davy had left Nashville there came stirring news from Texas: a meeting of men favoring open rebellion had taken place at San Antonio in October, and Santa Anna had practically suspended the protection of civil government. The message of the President to Congress made but slight allusion to this state of affairs, but the interests of the South, seeking more slave territory, were in line with the friends of liberty, and the prospect of a war beyond the borders grew more imminent every day. Davy kept his ear to the ground and watched the progress of events with anxiety.
After the same old round of wasted time, bitter speeches, and scant accomplishment, Congress adjourned, and Davy returned home by the old trail over the mountains.
It was in June that he went down the western slopes of the range, through a wild waste of trees and flowers. In the cold coves the laurel still glowed; the lady’s slipper, least of all the orchid sisterhood, swung beside the way; the Indian pine gleamed like a ghostly memory of departed tribes:
“The violets were past their prime,
Yet their departing breath
Was sweeter, in the blast of death,
Than all the fragrance of the time.”
They were the same birds, it seemed, that flew like bits of flame across his boyhood paths. The bluebird and the yellow warbler still rivalled the scarlet tanager in their splendid liveries, while the thrush, the cat-bird, and the riotous mocking-bird filled the wilderness with a flood of melodies. Past the tumbling cabin at the Limestone’s mouth, past the gentle confluence of the now tame Cove Creek with the Nolichucky, standing at last near the shaky tavern from which his father and mother had gone to their quiet graves, he longed for the sweet perplexities of his childhood as one longs for a drink from the far-away mossy spring where the luscious berries grew, and the arbutus dropped fragrant petals to its edge. He would have rejoiced if the dear ones who had gone to rest might have known of the honors that had come to their barefoot boy. He was nearing fifty years, now, and realized that all men wish to live long lives, yet would not grow old. Already the contest for reëlection had begun in his district. He was confident, with yet a trace of the doubt that always precedes the unattained. He looked in mute farewell at the old scenes, and went his way.
The political campaign was beginning to seethe with excitement. In the Eastern States some considerations of decency prevented utter recklessness in political warfare, but in a State which had not yet outgrown the knife and pistol methods of meeting slander, the owner of a paper had no idea of hanging for a lamb, when he might easily take a sheep. The choicest billingsgate and the most ingenious lying, emanating from all parts of a candidate’s district at once, made fighting the slanderers almost too big a contract for one man. But the rifle was always carried, or a pair of clumsy pistols ready, and license of speech was thereby restricted in public. At one of the meetings Davy was asked why all the Congressmen were not given rifles like his. He answered that he got the gun for being honest and supporting his country, instead of “bowing down and worshipping an idol”—the idol, of course, being Andrew Jackson. The big fellow who was thus answered replied with a rather incredulous air that the statement was pretty strong. “No stronger than true,” was the quick response, as each man went his way. In everything Davy seems to have been certain that he was right. In his simple faith, he thought himself sure of the support of all honest men, forgetting that even honest men may “see through a glass darkly,” and differ much.