Young Davy had little schooling because he ran away from a birching. He “jest loved the wimmin,” and got a number of girls in the family way. At one time he was paying court to a Quaker girl. In his own words: “For though I have heard people talk about hard loving, yet I reckon no poor devil in this world was ever cursed with such hard love as mine has always been, when it came on me.”
She would have none of him as her heart was set upon a sober-minded, nonswearing, mild-mannered Quaker cousin.
“This news was worse to me than war, pestilence or famine; but still I knowed I could not help myself. I saw quick enough my cake was dough, and I tried to cool it off as fast as possible; but I had hardly safety pipes enough, as my love was so hot as mighty nigh to burst my boilers.”
She married the Quaker and Davy got hitched to a Scottish girl, Polly Findlay, reputedly a direct descendant of King Macbeth, with a disposition to match. To escape her Davy joined Old Hickory Jackson in the War against the Crees. When he returned, Polly was gone. “Without a tender and loving wife,” Davy looked for, and found, a substitute in an ample-bossomed “widder-woman” named Lizzy Potter. In time, Davy became known as the King of the Wild Frontier, who could outshoot, outdrink, outtalk, outhunt, outjump, and outfight any other two-legged creature in creation. Always he had with him Teazer, his dog, Kill-Devil, his rifle, and Big Butcher, his bowie knife, the longest and heaviest in the whole country.
He was a genius at bragging: “I’m a screamer and have got the roughest racking horse, the prettiest sister, the surest rifle and the ugliest dog in the district. I’m a leetle the savagest crittur you ever did see. For bitters I swallow a whole keg of aquafortis, sweetened with brimstone, stirred with a lightnin’ rod, and skimmed with a tornado. I can swim like a catfish, run like a fox, and fight like the devil. I make love like a mad bull and kin swallow an Injin whole if you butter his head and pin his ears back.”
In 1827 Crockett was elected a member of Congress. In 1835, he lost his seat. He castigated his constituents who had failed to reelect him: “I told them, moreover, of my services, pretty straight up and down, for a man might be allowed to speak on such subjects when others are about to forget them; and I also told them of the manner in which I had been knocked down and dragged out, and that I didn’t consider it a fair fight anyhow they could fix it. I put the ingredients in the cup pretty strong I tell you, and I concluded my speech by telling them that I was done with politics for the present, and that they might all go to hell, and I would go to Texas.”
He went to Texas to keep his tryst with destiny. The legends show us Davy Crockett at the Alamo, his last bullets expended, gripping his Old Betsy by the barrel, wielding it like a club amid heaps of his fallen enemies. A postscript to his autobiography describes the hero’s end:
The battle was desperate until daylight, when only six men of the Texian garrison were found alive. They were instantly surrounded, and ordered by General Castrillon to surrender, which they did, under a promise of his protection, finding that resistance any longer would be madness. Colonel Crockett was one of the number. He stood alone, the barrel of his shattered rifle in his right hand, in his left hand his large Bowie knife dripping blood. There was a frightful gash across his forehead, while around him there was a complete barrier of about twenty Mexicans, lying pell mell, dead or dying.…
General Castrillon was brave and not cruel, and disposed to save the prisoners. He marched them up to that part of the fort where stood Santa Anna and his murderous crew. The steady fearless step and undaunted tread of Colonel Crockett had a powerful effect on all present. Nothing daunted he marched up boldly in front of Santa Anna, and looked him sternly in the face, while Castrillon addressed “his excellency,” “Sir, here are six prisoners I have taken alive; how shall I dispose of them?” Santa Anna flew into a violent rage, and replied, “Have I not told you how to dispose of them? Why do you bring them to me?” At the same time his brave officers plunged their swords into the bosoms of their defenceless prisoners. Colonel Crockett, seeing the act of treachery, instantly sprang like a tiger at the ruffian chief, but before he could reach him a dozen swords were sheathed in his indomitable heart; and he fell and died without a groan, a frown upon his brow, and a smile of scorn and defiance on his lips.
Grinning the Bark off a Tree
That Colonel Crockett could avail himself, in electioneering, of the advantages which well applied satire ensures, the following anecdote will sufficiently prove:
In the canvass of the Congressional election of 18—–, Mr. **** was the Colonel’s opponent—a gentleman of the most pleasing and conciliating manners—who seldom addressed a person or a company without wearing upon his countenance a peculiarly good humoured smile. The Colonel, to counteract the influence of this winning attribute, thus alluded to it in a stump speech:
“Yes, gentlemen, he may get some votes by grinning, for he can outgrin me—and you know I ain’t slow—and to prove to you that I am not, I will tell you an anecdote. I was concerned myself—and I was fooled a little of the wickedest. You all know I love hunting. Well, I discovered a long time ago that a ’coon couldn’t stand my grin. I would bring one tumbling down from the highest tree. I never wasted powder and lead, when I wanted one of the creatures. Well, as I was walking out one night, a few hundred yards from my house, looking carelessly about me, I saw a ’coon planted upon one of the highest limbs of an old tree. The night was very moony and clear, and old Ratler was with me; but Ratler won’t bark at a ’coon—he’s a queer dog in that way. So, I thought I’d bring the lark down in the usual way, by a grin. I set myself—and, after grinning at the ’coon a reasonable time, found that he didn’t want to come down. I wondered what was the reason—and I took another steady grin at him. Still he was THERE. It made me a little mad; so I felt round and got an old limb about five feet long, and, planting one end upon the ground, I placed my chin upon the other, and took a rest. I then grinned my best for about five minutes; but the cursed ’coon hung on. So, finding I could not bring him down by grinning, I was determined to have him—for I thought he must be a droll chap. I went over to the house, got my axe, returned to the tree, saw the ’coon still there, and began to cut away. Down it come, and I ran forward; but d—–n the ’coon was there to be seen. I found that what I had taken for one, was a large knot upon the branch of the tree and, upon looking at it closely, I saw that I had grinned all the bark off, and left the knot perfectly smooth.
“Now, fellow citizens,” continued the Colonel, “you must be convinced that, in the grinning line, I myself am not slow—yet, when I look upon my opponent’s countenance, I must admit that he is my superior. Therefore, be wide awake—look sharp—and do not let him grin you out of your votes.”
Davy Crockett on the Stump
“Friends, fellow-citizens, brothers and sisters: On the first Tuesday previous to next Saturday you will be called on to perform one of the most important duties that belong to free white folks—that are a fact. On that day you will be called upon to elect your members to the Senate and House of Representatives in the Congress of the United States, and feeling that in times of great political commotion like these, it becomes you to be well represented, I feel no hesitation in offering myself as a candidate to represent such a high-minded and magnanimous white set.
“Friends, fellow-citizens, brothers and sisters: They accuse me of adultery; it’s a lie—I never ran away with any man’s wife, that was not willing, in my life. They accuse me of gambling, it’s a lie—for I always plank down the cash.
“Friends, fellow-citizens, brothers and sisters: They accuse me of being a drunkard, it’s a d—–n eternal lie,—for whiskey can’t make me drunk.”
The Drinks Are on Me, Gentlemen
While being on the stump during a local election, Davy Crockett found himself among a group of constituents, all of them dry as powder horns and, consequently, exceedingly thirsty. He had to treat them, but was helliferociously short of the wherewithal. Leading
the crowd of voters to the nearest watering hole, he was eyed with great suspicion by the tightwad boniface. Not in the least fazed, he slapped his famous headgear on the counter, calling for a cooncap’s worth of whiskey, telling his eager constituents: “Gentlemen, the drinks are on me.”
The bardog measured out the cap’s worth in likker while the crowd broke into enthusiastic “Huzzahs for Crockett!” The publican picked up the coonskin cap and threw it up into the loft behind him. As soon as the glasses were empty, Davy called for another round. While the tapster’s back was turned, Davy, observing that there was a lot of space between the logs which formed the loft, took his ramrod and fished out his skin cap from out between them. “I brung a passel of these to sell. Might as well swap ’em for some of the good creature.” With that he put the same cap on the bar while the voters drank toasts to the Cunnel an’ the Dimmicratic Party. This game the Yaller Blossom of the Forest played again and again, until the whole company had been well watered into insensibility, the boniface included. Assured of the necessary votes from his appreciative constituents, the Original Frontier Humorist retrieved his coonskin cap for the last time and departed whistling a merry tune.
Gouging the Critter
In 1797 a Kaintuck long hunter took his ax and went into the woods to cut a broom handle for his wife. He was but a short way from his cabin when he was set upon by a large, ferocious bear. He was about to tackle the “varmint” with his ax, but his four-legged opponent snatched this weapon from him. So the two of them, bear and man, went at each other tooth and nail. Unfortunately, from the bear’s point of view, the human contestant was of the half-horse–half-alligator type, an experienced rib staver who had bitten off many an ear during a lively election-day fight. He now went about “gouging the critter,” using the same methods he had employed when fighting river rats and card cheats—namely, by fastening his teeth upon the beast’s nose, while doing some eye gouging and groin thumping. In no time at all the poor bear was reduced to “crying uncle” by crying so loud and pitifully that neighbors from a mile off came running to the rescue—of the man, they thought.
Soon Bruin’s skin was lying in front of the bold “gouger’s” fire-place after a great feast of roasted bear for the whole settlement. “How didje an’ the bar make it?” one of the neighbors inquired of the happy ring-tailed squealer.
The victor flapped his wings and crowed like a rooster: “T’war nuthin’. Bars can’t stand Kentucky play. Gougin’ and twistin’ of the privities is too hard on ’em.”
Jim Bowie and His Big Knife
Colonel Jim Bowie, now there was a man! A southern blueblood, he was fair-haired, and blue-eyed, jovial, soft-spoken, and ever polite to the ladies. He could rip apart a fellow with his knife, from the groin to the throat with a single swipe. He was born, in 1796, in Old Kaintuck, though there are some who say that he hailed from Georgia. It doesn’t matter. The main thing is that he was born. Jim had four brothers of whom only one, Rezin, is worth mentioning. In 1802 Jim’s Pappy took the whole gang of them to Catahoula Parish, Louisiana, where young Jim amused himself riding alligators, lassoing them and killing them with his butcher knife, making good money by selling the hides. Such doings gave people the idea that Jim was big and burly, but in truth he was a not overly tall, delicate fellow.
Jim and Rezin were tolerably good shots, but when it came to fighting, they preferred knives. As Jim used to say: “A knife is always loaded.” How did Jim come by his famous knife? Well, according to some, he once found himself in a scrape with two mean-eyed sons of bitches with only a sword for a weapon. He tried to chop the head off of one of these fellows, but the blade broke in half and he had to finish his fight with the stump. He did so well with it (he ripped up both these gents’ bellies) that Jim said to himself: “A knife’s the thing for me!”
But whoa! Hold on! The truth is that Jim didn’t invent the bowie knife. His brother Rezin is the one who did it. Rezin was about to go on a hunting trip but had somehow lost his knife. He made himself a new one from a blacksmith’s rasp, on account of the admirable quality of its steel, and so came up with the most formidable close-quarter weapon ever. Rezin later made a present of it to his brother Jim, saying: “You may some time find it useful. Should the occasion ever come, you may depend upon its temper and its strength.”
Whoa, hold it right there. This sounds too highfalutin. As a matter of fact, some folks tell a different story. Rezin did not make his mancarver himself but went to a knifesmith by the name of Jim Black. This fellow, then a blacksmith’s apprentice, had run away from Philadelphia to set up shop for himself in the West. He had his own secret way of hardening steel, and his knives were famous for keeping their blades keen and razor-sharp forever. It was said that a man could cut hickory wood with one of Black’s knives for a month and still have a blade keen enough to shave himself with. Rezin went to this fellow and asked him to make a knife to his specifications—not for picking his teeth, but for “killing stuff.” Black came up with a man-slicer whose blade was fourteen inches long—the first bowie knife.
Whoa! Hold on again, because some friends of the Colonel vowed that the genuine original article had a blade exactly nine and a quarter inches long and one and a half inches wide. It broadened along the spine, tapering to a point, single-edged, but double-edged at the tip. This was a mighty handy tool. Besides being ideal for picking your teeth, it was good for shaving, whittling, trimming your nails, and cutting your beard. You could use it for slicing, and stabbing, and even throwing, because it was weighted at the tip. It was the ideal widow-maker. You could stab a fellow with it in the heart so nice and easy that he hardly felt a thing. As for cutting a throat, it was the dreamiest thing ever.
There are some folks saying that the colonel was so noble and dainty that he used his knife only once for its intended purpose. They are dead wrong. In 1827, on the most famous occasion, Jim Bowie used it during a free-for-all duel which came about by the colonel being dead broke. He went to a banker, Norris Wright, and applied for a loan. Wright told him that he was a bad risk. That made the colonel kind of wrothy. The anger simmered and came to a boil. To settle matters both men, together with several friends and supporters, met on a sandspit in the middle of the Mississippi River that the locals used for such affairs of honor. The parties lost no time palavering but went at it with a will. Wright shot Bowie down, “ventilating” him through hip and shoulder. Thinking that he had settled the colonel’s hash for good, Wright stabbed him in the chest and, for good measure, gave him a terrific clout on the head, but there was still enough wildcat left in Jim to fight back. With a deft upward slash of his knife he neatly opened up Wright from pubis, via pelvis, to the shirt collar. He then proceeded to make coleslaw out of two other fellows to teach them not to stick their noses into other folks’ business. A handful of gents bit the dust on this occasion, and word of the wonderful bowie knife spread through the whole country.
But whoa! Hold on! There are some so-called historians who say that the bowie knife had not been invented yet and that Colonel Jim had done his slicing with an ordinary butcher knife. It doesn’t matter. Wright was dead and Bowie came out of it alive to do more deeds of derring-do.
During another battle royal, Bowie was set upon by three knife fighters, gents with their bark on who had been hired by a bardog whom Bowie had once carved up like a turkey. The colonel neatly decapitated the first would-be killer with a slash of his two-pound blade. The second assassin managed to inflict a leg wound on bold Jim who, in a tit for tat, disemboweled the fellow with a one-two-three swipe. The third hombre ran away, but Jim, though limping, caught up with him, cleaving his skull in two, “from crown to shoulder.”
Not all of Jim’s encounters had such bloody endings. In 1832 a lady traveling on a stage coach requested a fellow passenger to put his pipe away because it emitted clouds of vile, suffocating smoke. The ruffian ignored her and went on puffing and blowing, but another passenger quickly persuaded him to behave by holding a
monstrous knife to his throat. The gallant passenger’s name was Jim Bowie.
In 1813 Jim and Rezin moved to Texas where they opened the first steam-operated sugar mill in the state, but whoa! Hold It! The Bowies’ real business was slaving. They got friendly with the pirate Jean Lafitte, who had built himself a fort on an island in the Gulf of Mexico. Lafitte and the kindhearted gentlemanly brothers, blessed with the gift of winning every man’s heart (and every woman’s love), began a brisk trade in “black ivory.” The pirate brought in the slaves fresh from Africa. Jim and Rezin bought them at one dollar a pound, smuggled them into the States, and sold them there at three dollars per pound for a neat profit. The importation of slaves from Africa had by then been outlawed even though the “peculiar institution” was to endure for some fifty years more—until Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation.
Jim and Rezin settled down at San Antonio de Béxar, the colonel becoming, for a while, a citizen of Mexico. When the colonel’s money ran out, he found a solution, both romantic and financially beneficial—he married beautiful Ursula de Veramendi, daughter of the Texas vice-governor, a rich caballero who settled a dowry of fifteen thousand dollars upon the teenage bride. The happy husband took to living high on the hog and to drinking more tequila and mescal than was good for him. When he found himself broke again, he and Rezin went prospecting for gold and silver, starting a legend within a legend—the Saga of the Lost Bowie Mine.
Legends and Tales of the American West Page 8