American Legend: The Real-Life Adventures of David Crockett

by Buddy Levy

  Then the arrogant and boasting press began to flow in from the side of the victors, proving more than Crockett could stomach. A wealthy businessman and ardent Jackson man wrote giddily to Polk, exclaiming, “We have killd blacguard Crockett at last.”47 A local building contractor exclaimed joyously, “It gives me great pleasure to say . . . that the great Hunter one Davy has been beaten by a Hunstman.”48 The Charleston Courier appeared giddy with elation, printing on August 31:

  Col. Davy Crockett, hitherto regarded as the Nimerod of the West, has been beaten for Congress by a Mr. Huntsman. The Colonel has lately suffered himself to be made a lion, or some other wild beast, tamed, if not caged, for public shew—and it is no wonder that he should have yielded to the prowess of a Huntsman, when again let loose in his native wilds. We fear that ‘Go ahead’ will no longer be either the Colonel’s motto or destiny.49

  Rifle found after the battle, the kind many of the defenders, including Crockett, used during the entire siege and battle of the Alamo. (Dickert rifle, detail photograph. Daughters of the Republic of Texas Library, San Antonio.)

  The Arkansas Gazette jumped aboard as well, hitting the man while he was down and referring to him as “the buffoon, Davy Crockett.”

  It was time to cut and run. At forty-nine years of age, Crockett still had some living to do. Perhaps he recalled the conversation with Sam Houston and felt the pull of Texas. But for now, Tennessee was spent, and there wasn’t much to keep him there. He remained a celebrity in the East, but playing the role of the backwoodsman had worn thin. Perhaps it was time to actually be a backwoodsman again, to mount a horse, cradle a long rifle in his arms, and trot into a stiffening breeze. He knew that bison still roamed the plains of Texas, and fellows with enough grit and determination could make a go of it on the new frontier. He’d heard stories of how it was bigger than anything you’d ever imagined, plains rolling on and on into the sunset and beyond, the dirt blood-red as the sky. Maybe now might be the right time to see for himself.

  He was a man of principle and a man of his word. He had said what he would do if he lost, and now he held himself accountable. He had done everything in his power to win the election, but he’d been rejected for another. Well then, that was that. They could all go to hell, and he would go to Texas.

  FOURTEEN

  Lone Star on the Horizon

  THOUGH IT WAS NOT THE FIRST TIME David Crockett had lost an election, he took this rejection harder than ever, no doubt because in a very real way his defeat by Huntsman was also a victory for Jackson. Any presidential dreams or aspirations Crockett may have still harbored for 1836 were now dashed, so it was time to look to the future, quite literally toward that flaming western horizon that always tugged at him. Crockett knew, as did most people in his region and certainly everyone involved at high levels of United States government, about the growing skirmish in Texas, which even now was escalating from rebellion to revolution among the colonists, yet his attentions and motivations appeared personal at the moment. He needed, as later Westerners would put it, to “get out of Dodge.”

  But he was headed toward a turbulent place. The political situation in Texas was complicated, the dominion and “ownership” of the nebulous region controversial. Spanish conquistadores arrived on the shores as early as 1519, seeking the storied “cities of gold.” Spain continued to attempt to colonize the region by setting up missions in the western and southern boundaries, maintaining this system through the eighteenth and into the early nineteenth century. But the governing seat of Spain was too far away to effectively maintain order, and more important, control a vital and growing population. Texas was simply too big a holding to manage. In the meantime, there were other claims to the territory, from both within and without. Andrew Jackson himself believed that Texas belonged to the United States as part of the Louisiana Purchase,1 though in 1825 Jackson offered to purchase the entire territory from Mexico for 5 million dollars, but was refused.

  By 1821, Moses Austin and his son, Stephen F. Austin, had negotiated a deal with Spain to set up the first authorized Anglo colony in Texas, and a clause allowed a grant to bring in 300 families to settle on the Colorado River within two miles of the ocean.2 Later that same year, Mexico declared independence and Stephen F. Austin took on the mantle of colonization alone. His father Moses fell ill, most likely to pneumonia, and his dying wish was that his son would continue their colonization plan.3 By 1824, Austin was able to lure prospective colonists with sweet land enticements—granting up to a full league (4,428.4 acres) of land to those willing to convert to Catholicism and sign an oath of allegiance.4 Free land, or virtually free land was sufficient temptation, and settlers began to pour across the Red and Sabine Rivers—eventually by the thousands—carrying what little money they might have, hope for a better life, and not a lot else.

  Wide-ranging and mobile bands of Apaches, Kiowas, and Comanches often attacked settlers in night raids, “sweeping down from their camps west of the Balcones Escarpment, . . . stealing horses, burning ranches, killing men, and carrying off terrified women and children.”5 Texas remained a dangerous and inhospitable land that would need better incentives to entice the right kind of men to settle there, those willing to risk their own lives as well as the lives of their families. The land itself would ultimately prove that lure.

  Initally resident Mexican settlers known as Tejanos were content with the influx of Anglo settlers, as it buffered them against the hostile Indians and provided potential for commerce and trade.6 Over time laws were enacted to restrict further immigration from the United States, but many downtrodden U.S. settlers ignored the laws and bolted for Texas anyway, creating tension among the Tejanos and drawing the ire of President-General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. As early as 1830, Santa Anna ordered the expulsion of all illegal settlers, “and all Texians (as they now preferred to call themselves) disarmed.”7 The power-hungry Santa Anna went so far as to dismantle the constitutional government and Federal Constitution of 1824, effectively taking over as dictator of Mexico. Austin, watching his dream of settlement begin to disintegrate, struck out for Mexico City to lobby for Texas statehood.8 Austin was imprisoned shortly after his arrival in early January 1834, and would have to work toward an independent Texas state from the confines of the very same prison cell once used during the Mexican Inquisition.9

  Such was the maelstrom into which Crockett had determined to ride.

  NOT ONE TO SLINK AWAY from a defeat in silence, Crockett planned to depart with flying colors, making a feast of the occasion and throwing a “going-away” barbecue for himself and the others who had agreed to join him.10 Family and friends convened at his farm in Gibson County, the late October air sweet and cool, the scent of adventure and opportunity on the wind. Crockett dug barbecue pits, and hired men tended the spitted meats while “the boys” were competing at logrolling and other games of strength and agility, and, of course, draining horns of whiskey. As the day wore on it turned into a full-fledged frolic, with dancing, more drinking, and fiddle-playing on into the evening, even through a pouring rain.11 They reveled late into the night, with Crockett talking up Texas, convinced it was the right place to go. He could scout the land and report back to his family, and if he liked it there as much as he hoped to, perhaps he could convince them, including Elizabeth and her family, to follow him west once more. It was certainly worth a shot, perhaps the last such shot he would ever have.

  On the first of November Crockett loaded the horses, packing as he would for an extended autumn-long hunt. It promised to be an expedition, like many of his scouting forays in the past, riding out to new and unknown country, the familiar thud of hoofbeats on the roadway, the acrid scent of horse sweat in his nose, saddle leather squeaking as they trotted along. He’d salted down as much meat as he could carry in saddlebags and packed plenty of powder and ammunition for the hunting, no doubt including as many canisters of the fine Du Pont powder. He must have been happier than he had been in years, finally about to embark on what he l
oved more than anything else in the world—a journey into a new frontier, with a few friends and his trusty hunting rifle Betsey.12 He could hardly contain his anticipation of the journey ahead, writing with optimism to his brother-in-law George Patton, “I am on the eve of Starting to the Texes . . . we will go through Arkinsaw and I want to explore the Texes well before I return.”13 It promised to be a trip of a lifetime, and Crockett had no set schedule for his return; it all depended on what he found when he got there.

  Crockett would not be traveling alone, a fact that would have pleased the stoic Elizabeth, for she and David remained amicable if separated. Accompanying him for the long ride to the Southwest would be his nephew, William Patton, with whom Crockett got on well. Also saddled up were two friends, Abner Burgin and Lindsey Tinkle.14 A small party was better than going solo, especially once they shook free of civilization and headed into open range and Indian country. On the morning of November 1, 1835, the four men swung onto their mounts, heeled their spurs into the flanks of their horses, and waved good-bye to their families and friends.

  They rode steadily, reining their horses south to Bolivar, then onto the well-traveled road heading west toward Memphis, where they planned to hole up for a few days for a series of unofficial sendoffs. Crockett’s celebrity preceded him, as usual, so that even without a Whig-tailored itinerary, the word-of-mouth buzz was that Crockett was coming. He took his time to visit with old acquaintances along the way, and some, having heard that a small band was heading toward Texas, took it as a muster-call and were packed up and ready to join as he passed through their towns. Riders joined their party along the way, some with real intentions of sticking it out, others just for the bragging rights—to say they had ridden the trail in the company of the great David Crockett.

  While Crockett’s intentions had been clear at the outset—this was an extended scouting and hunting expedition—news of the uprisings in Texas had some men’s dander up, and certainly some of those who strung along the military road from Jackson to Bolivar believed they were heading south to fight for freedom. On October 5, Sam Houston had written an appeal from Texas to the American citizens, and it appeared with remarkable celerity just two days later in the Red River Herald, which printed the following near-panicked exclamation: HIGHLY IMPORTANT FROM TEXAS!!!! WAR IN TEXAS—General Cos landed near the mouth of the Brazos with 400 men.15 The story received a great deal of attention and wide circulation, appearing also in the Arkansas Gazette and filtering around the region to many papers, including the Lexington Observer, the Kentucky Reporter, and the Commonwealth, most including Houston’s personal appeal:

  War in defence of our rights, our oaths, and our constitutions is inevitable, in Texas! If volunteers from the United States will join their brethren in this section, they will receive liberal bounties of land. We have millions of acres of our best lands unchosen and unappropriated. Let each man come with a good rifle, and one hundred rounds of ammunition, and come soon.16

  The references to “liberal bounties of land” piqued the interest of many and the allusions to “millions of acres” of essentially free land were not lost on the entrepreneurial mind of David Crockett. Whether he intended to or not, Crockett had become the de facto leader of what resembled a small military band, and as one onlooker reported, seeing Crockett and the men depart Jackson, “Col. Crockett went on some time ago at the head of 30 men well armed and equipped.”17 The natural-born leader of men now traveled with an entourage.

  Crockett and company trotted into Bolivar, where Crockett was hosted by his friend Dr. Calvin Jones, the very man who had given him such equitable terms in leasing him his Gibson County farm.18 Dr. Jones could not help but be impressed by the bustling crowds that poured onto the streets in advance of Crockett’s arrival, and he noted that “every eye was strained to catch a glimpse of him.”19 Jones added that as Crockett rode through town “every hand extended either in courtesy or regard,” some reaching out to pat him on the back or brush against his shoulder. The treatment Crockett received from complete strangers, the awe, the cheers and shouts of good luck, proved to Jones that David Crockett was no ordinary man, he was a full-blown legend in the flesh. Dr. Jones later admitted that he was “more of a Lion than I had supposed.”20

  As they rode on toward Memphis, some of the group begged off, perhaps realizing the gravity of their potential journey, so that by the time they reached Memphis on November 10 they were a small hunting party again. Crockett looked forward to dismounting and sidling up to the bar with a few of his old cronies, including his good friend and patron Marcus Winchester. Crockett liveried his chestnut and checked into the City Hotel, freshened up a bit, then spent the day walking about the town, reconnecting with old friends and gathering a kind of posse as he went. By nightfall the boys were in a reveling mood, piling into the half-brick, half-frame Union Hotel bar.21 Their numbers bursting to the walls of the smallish establishment, the crew decided they needed better comfort to take a social horn, so they backed out and headed to a proper emporium, Hart’s Saloon on Market Street, where the drinking began in earnest. The men ordered round after round, and soon the place was loud and smoky, with shouting over the bar tab and proprietor Royal Hart worried that he was going to get stiffed, as Gus Young, who had done most of the ordering, assured Hart he would pay for the drinks the next day.22 Hart wasn’t keen on the idea, and was close to drubbing the intoxicated Young when Crockett intervened, offering to pay for the liquor himself. Soon the lot of them were arguing over who would pay, and in the end the tab was taken care of and the rowdy gang now lifted Crockett onto their shoulders and carried him down the street to the next venue, McCool’s.

  There, the boisterous band of brothers hoisted Crockett right onto the bar and demanded a speech from the legendary man. He knew what they wanted to hear, and he’d made this short speech more than once. He hushed the group as they raised their glasses, and offered up this rendition:

  My friends, I suppose you are all aware that I was recently a candidate for Congress in an adjoining district. I told the voters that if they would elect me I would serve them to the best of my ability; but if they did not, they might go to hell, and I would go to Texas. I am on my way now.23

  With that, the theatrical Crockett leapt from the bar, and into the shouting and cheering mass. Owner and barkeep Neil McCool lost his cool when he saw Crockett’s grimy boots staining the linen on his bar top, and he flew into a rage, demanding that the rowdy bunch leave. A scuffle commenced, with items like sugar crushers and tumblers flying through the air, some broken glass, and most embarrassing of all, McCool’s wig being yanked from his head and tossed about from person to person, his shiny bald dome coming as a delicious surprise to the locals.24

  The sensible Crockett suggested they disperse and hit the sack, for he had a long journey ahead of him, and as they had already been booted from one bar, perhaps they should cut their losses. But the momentum had them rolling, and the diehards of the group dragged Crockett to Jo Cooper’s on Main. Here Crockett submitted to a couple more impromptu speeches, his words by now slurring. Cooper liked having Crockett in his place, and he happily “brought out liquors in quantities. He had the largest supply and the best quality on the bluff, but only sold by the barrel or cask.”25 The men partied for hours, drinking themselves into a staggering stupor which they finally took home to their beds at an hour closer to morning than night.

  Crockett was no stranger to the odd hangover, but the one that greeted him on November 11 must have been memorable; still, Crockett managed to roust himself, shake off the cobwebs, gather his boys, and head down to the Catfish Bay ferry landing, where he would cross the “American Nile” and step onto Arkansas soil. Winchester and some other Memphis old timers like Edwin Hickman and C. D. McLean escorted Crockett and his traveling companions onto a large flatboat used to ferry folks across the river. An aspiring young journalist named James D. Davis followed the historic walk “in silent admiration” down to the water, with no way of k
nowing that those would be the final steps that David Crockett would ever take in his home state of Tennessee. Davis recounted the scene, claiming to remember it “as if it were yesterday”:

  He wore that same veritable coon-skin cap and hunting shirt, bearing upon his shoulder his ever faithful rifle. No other equipment, save his shot-pouch and powder-horn, do I remember seeing. I witnessed the last parting salutations between him and those few devoted friends. He stepped into the boat. The chain untied from the stob, and thrown with a rattle by old Limus into the bow of the boat, it pushed away from the shore, and floating lazily down the little Wolf, out into the big river, and rowed across to the other side, bearing that remarkable man away from his State and kindred forever.26

  Knowing he would have an audience, Crockett may well have been wearing his Nimrod Wildfire regalia for effect, the consummate showman giving his audience what they wanted to see. He’d stuffed his dress attire deep in his saddle bags, figuring a formal fête or dinner might offer itself along the way to Texas.27 The hoots and hollers diminished as they entered the bigger water and finally there was just a knot of men waving good-bye from the banks. They were waving good-bye to more than a man. The onlookers stood and saluted the person who had become the legend, the self-made man who, lore had it, Old Hickory had commissioned to scale the Alleghenies and personally wring off the tail of Halley’s Comet.28 That night, and for the remainder of the nights of Crockett’s journey, those who paused to gaze skyward would have seen the languid but fiery luminescence of Halley’s Comet scoring its path across the southern sky and into the people’s memory, almost as if the conjuror Crockett had orchestrated the timing of his departure and the return of the feared and famous comet, to coincide.