“Farewell to my country! I fought for thee well,
When the savage rushed forth like the demons of hell.
In peace or in war I have stood by thy side.
My country, for thee I have lived—would have died!
But I am cast off, my career is now run,
And I wander abroad like a prodigal son.
Where the wild savage roves, and the broad prairies spread,
The fallen—despised—will again—Go Ahead!”
Having now determined to “cut out and quit the States until honest men should have a chance to work their way to the head of the heap,” Davy said good-by to his friends and his family, and started for Mills’ Point, to take a boat down the river.
“The thermometer stood somewhat below freezing point,” he says, “as I left my wife and children; still there was some thawing about the eyelids, a thing that had not happened since I ran away from my father’s house when a thoughtless, vagabond boy. I dressed myself in a clean hunting-shirt, put on a new fox-skin cap with the tail hanging behind, took hold of my rifle ‘Betsy,’ which all the world knows was presented to me by the patriots of Philadelphia, and, thus equipped, started off to go ahead in a new world.”
It appears that up to this time Davy’s account of his life had been taken down by the editor of his book or an assistant. From time to time more was added, evidently from notes or messages sent from the frontier. Manifestos signed by Davy Crockett bear no trace of his style, nor do the concluding chapters of his book, which he never saw completed. Whoever helped the rounding out of his narrative could easily have followed Davy in his wanderings, and it must be taken for granted that this was done. All through the book there is a random way of telling the story, but in no case, after careful study, does there appear any discrepancy.
When Davy boarded the steamer Mediterranean at the Point, he was welcomed by many prominent men on the way to Arkansas and Texas. The steamboat was one of the finest on the river, and before her gangway was aboard, and the slowly turning paddle-wheels had sent the surging waves against the muddy banks, Davy was the centre of a group of bankers, soldiers, Indian-fighters, gamblers, speculators, and all that then made the river their highway. They were interested in the future of Texas, and were determined to make it free of Mexican rule. In the spectacular figure of the famous scout, bear-hunter, and Congressman, they saw a new ideal. Such a history as his was rare to their experiences. They knew he might be relied upon for courage and honesty. When the Mediterranean tied up at Helena, in a storm, a subscription of eighty thousand dollars for the Texan cause was made up on board. Davy Crockett, James Bowie, Colonel Hawkins, Captain Travis, and Captain Fannin were made trustees of this fund. Every one of these names is blazoned upon the Texan scroll of fame. The money was paid in, put in charge of John Slidell, Governor White, and S. S. Prentiss, and was all used in freeing Texas from Mexico.
Davy is said to have gone to New Orleans, and is known to have visited Natchez, stirring up the more peaceable to active interest in the affairs of the Americans threatened by the new attitude of the Mexican Government. For three years all Mexican troops had been kept out of Texas; the latest news told of the coming of General Cos with a strong force, and the garrisoning of San Antonio by several hundred Mexican soldiers, selected, by orders from Santa Anna, from the lowest classes, men who were ever ready to cut throats, plunder, or insult the colonists. With the money subscribed, the gathering of supplies for the “inevitable conflict” went rapidly forward. The return of Stephen F. Austin, after eight months’ captivity in Mexican prisons, brought a new force into the field. The Americans cast bullets, looked to their priming, and built adobe forts under pretense of building homes. The slow ferment of racial hatred, the antipathies of men who worshipped God in different ways or not at all, the cherishing of the memories of murderous deeds on both sides, grew slowly into a flood of passion, fed by every heart-throb day and night.
After various journeys along and about the Red River, Davy started for the front, where the old city of San Antonio de Bejar stood forever the centre of bloody tragedies and bitter strife. After being entertained in true Western style at Little Rock, he set forth for Fulton, one hundred and twenty miles across country. The citizens had given him a horse and saddle, and the company of four or five men, bound for Washita River, gave the party the appearance of a band of scouts. After a ride of fifty miles they drew near the river, when sounds of music were heard. “Hail Columbia” rolled across the fringe of alders along the banks, but when they raised their voices in a cheer the playing stopped, to again break into that old sad song of vanished hopes, “Over the Water to Charlie.” Putting spurs to their tired horses, they came to the river’s edge, to look upon the spectacle of a travelling parson whom they had seen at Little Rock, sitting in a sulky in the middle of the swirling stream. His horse could barely keep his feet, and yet the parson played with a composure that told of his faith in a higher power. He had fiddled for more than an hour, not daring to turn or venture on, and when he was rescued by Davy’s company he was about used up.
From this point Davy went on towards Fulton with the preacher, as far as Greenville. As they rode along, the old parson spoke so warmly of the bountiful works of Providence that his faith was imparted to his companion. “We were alone in the wilderness,” wrote Davy, “but all things told me that God was there. The thought renewed my strength and courage. I had left my country; felt somewhat like an outcast; but now I was conscious that there was One still watching over me. My soul leaped with joy at the thought: I never felt so grateful in all my life; I never before loved God so sincerely. I felt that I still had a friend.”
There are some that will sneer at Davy’s confession of his faith and love, forgetting that the wandering outcast, even the worst of men, looks out sometimes from the darkest depths to the long-remembered sweetness of a mother’s smile. “How sharp the point of this remembrance is!” The careless or the hardened shrink from tender memories, but sometimes, in the moment of evil impulse or of passion’s sway, their hands by these are stayed from wickedness. In such a heart as Davy Crockett’s there will always burn the reverential fires that keep the soul alight.