David thought: I’ll wager you were counting on me not walking it either. But what he said out loud was: “Will you take me with you, like you said?”
“I will indeed. I wouldn’t turn you back for anything, not after all you’ve gone through, bless your soul! You must be truly longing to see your kin, boy.”
“Yes sir, I am.”
They ate a good breakfast, and David’s cost him not a penny, because the innkeeper was as impressed as Dunn was, and made the meal a gift of honor. And he firmly promised David he would reveal nothing to Siler, should he come asking. Old Siler never had set too well with him anyhow. Always looking out for himself at everyone else’s expense.
The wagons, bound for Knoxville, set out shortly after daylight. No more snow fell, and the temperature rose, slowly transforming the snow into muddy slush. The wagons almost bogged down on the road, and moved far too slowly to suit David, who grew so impatient he began counting the sluggish turns of the wheels and trying to estimate the miles.
He looked behind him often, watching for Siler—though he knew that Siler could hardly catch up to him this quickly, on such a bad road, if he even bothered to follow.
The wagons were slow, but they were steady, and as the day passed David felt more and more secure. He determined that even if Siler caught up with him, he would not go back. Dunn would surely rally to his aid in such a situation.
David closed his eyes and thought about the warm tavern and the welcoming embrace of his mother. He smiled. Home lay ahead.
The teams trudged, the mud-coated wheels turned over slowly, and the next day it was the same. By the time forty miles were behind and they had neared the Roanoke and the house of one John Cole, a friend of Dunn’s, David’s warm anticipation of home was matched by intense frustration. He was sure the wagons moved at about half the speed he could make on foot, and though he felt deeply obliged to Dunn, he had decided to set out on his own. He didn’t want Dunn to think him ungrateful, but he simply couldn’t wait. To continue at this snail’s pace would surely bedevil him right out of his sanity.
They spent the night at Cole’s, then the next morning David set out. Dunn disliked the notion, and begged him to reconsider, but David would not listen. Waving goodbye to his benefactors, he took up his pack and began walking.
He had gone only a short distance when he heard someone coming up behind him on the road. Turning, he saw a man riding on a horse and leading another. When he noted that the led horse was saddled but riderless, he had a fright. Might old Siler have sent this man after his runaway hireling? David thought of running, but decided that would only make matters worse. He could see already that the rider was a stranger to him, and so would not know the face of David Crockett if he saw it. David determined to use a false identity should the question be put directly to him.
“Howdy,” the man said when he reached David.
“Hello.”
“A cold day to be traveling, eh? Especially on foot.”
The question made David suspicious. “I don’t mind it.”
“Well, where you heading? We seem to be going the same direction.”
“Into Tennessee. Jefferson County.”
“That right? Well, so am I—well, not exactly. I ain’t going to Jefferson County, and I won’t be staying in Tennessee. Passing through. I’m Kentucky-bound.”
David’s suspicions declined, just a little. The man’s manner seemed open enough, and his talk of Kentucky didn’t have the ring of a lie. That riderless horse still worried him, though. He looked back at it, and the man noticed.
“Fine horse, that one,” he said. “All I have left of a herd I sold at market yesterday. The saddle was part of my payment.” He rubbed his chin. “In that it seems we’re going to be on the same road for a time, why don’t you make that saddle useful? Climb up and ride. Rest your feet.”
“I don’t mind walking.”
“I won’t hear of it. My name’s Wilkerson, by the way. Abe Wilkerson.”
David wondered if this Wilkerson was pulling a ploy on him. “I’m Persius Tarr,” he said. For some strange reason, it was the first name that came to mind.
Wilkerson gave him an odd look. “Tarr?” He paused, seeming confused or troubled. A moment later, however, his expression warmed again. “Tarr! Now, there’s a good and rare name, and a rare name, like a rare jewel, is all the finer, eh? Pleased to meet you, Persius.”
David shook Wilkerson’s hand. A decision faced him, and he made it quickly. He would risk a little trust and accept Wilkerson’s offer, even though his doubts were far from settled. After all, if Wilkerson proved treacherous and tried to take him back to Siler, all he would have to do is leap off and run. He was fleet; he could outrun this fellow on foot, and take to the brush if he tried to follow on horseback. And if Wilkerson proved to be no more than the helpful soul he purported himself to be, well, traveling by horseback beat walking any day.
David mounted. It felt deliciously good to spread his aching legs across the saddle and rest his feet in the stirrups. With Wilkerson’s help, he tied his pack behind him, and they set off, heading toward the Roanoke River.
The horses crossed the cold river and plodded up the far bank. Abe Wilkerson sang a drinking song, then a hymn, then another drinking song. David relaxed. He trusted Wilkerson far more now. If he had been sent by Siler to bring him back, he wouldn’t have taken him across the river.
They traveled steadily and without incident. Entering Tennessee, they took a route through Blountville and on into Carter’s Valley and Rogersville, where David wished he could seek out his grandparents’ graves. He could not, however, without revealing that he had lied about his identity, a fact of which he now felt ashamed.
They went on until they came to a point six miles from the Holston River. Beyond the Holston, David would have only another eight or nine miles to go to his home. He could hardly wait.
The point of parting had come. Wilkerson’s road led to the north, David’s across the Holston, on to Cheek’s Crossroads, then to the tavern. He said a sincere farewell to Wilkerson.
“Persius,” Wilkerson said, “there’s one thing I must know, and I know no other way to ask it than straight out. Were you the horse thief I heard talk of at the market?”
David gaped. “Horse thief! No, no. I’ve never stolen a horse—I’ve stolen nary a thing!” Why was Wilkerson talking this way? Was he going to turn on him here at the end?
“Well, I believe you, if you say so. I’ve never been one to confuse gossip with gospel. But you might want to know that there’s much talk in Virginia of a Persius Tarr who stole a fine Chickasaw horse from a farmer on the James River. He’s said to be a lone sort of thief, who run off a couple or so years back from a blacksmith he had been bound to by the Orphan Court.”
“Run off …” This was the first David had heard of Persius’s flight from bondage back in Greene County.
Wilkerson went on. “Now, Persius Tarr ain’t a name I’d expect to find on more than one human being in any given century, but if you say that ain’t you, then I believe you. But you take care, hear? There’s others that might not be so quick to take your word as I am.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Good-bye, Persius. Maybe our paths will cross again someday.”
David watched him ride away, marveling that news of his old companion Persius had come so unexpectedly. Not good news, to be sure, but news still.
He was glad to know Persius was still alive. Of course, he might not be alive much longer, if he had truly turned horse thief. Frontier justice, both formal and informal, had little patience for a stealer of horseflesh.
David drew a deep breath, turned toward home and began striding across the wintry countryside. Fifteen miles to go—a long trek by most standards. To David, with hundreds of miles behind him, it seemed like no distance at all.
Chapter 13
The David Crockett who returned from Virginia was not the David Crockett who had left home months
before. Trials of the trail had matured his mind and hardened his body. He was taller and leaner, making him look gangly, disguising the increased strength of his muscles.
His parents seemed proud of his safe and successful return. John Crockett was pleased most of all by the money David brought home. He had had spent very little of the pay Siler had given him. John claimed it all and applied it to one of his many debts, which, along with taxes, plagued the man like fleas on a dog. Sometimes he was able to pay off what he owed, many other times not. The three hundred acres he had owned on Mossy Creek, and to which he had briefly considered moving after the mill disaster, had been sold by the sheriff in 1795. And in 1798 one Gideon Morris had gone to his grave having never collected the payment for thirty-five bushels of Indian corn John Crockett had bought from him on credit all the way back in 1783. John Crockett had a propensity for falling in debt to any neighbor kind enough to extend him credit.
But he had one admirable trait—though David came to think of it more as troublesome. John wanted to see his sons educated. Belief in the value of education was typical of the Scots-Irish from whom he had descended. John had a full share of the mixed Scots-Irish nature: ruggedness, freedom from tradition followed solely for its own sake, occasional suspiciousness and intolerance of those who were different, clannishness, adaptability, loyalty, dislike of too much government.
In the fall of 1799, David found himself sent off for an education. East of nearby Barton’s Spring, a man named Benjamin Kitching had set up a school, and to and from this school the Crockett brothers trod each day. David found education a hateful, stifling affair. What need did he have of book learning? He had already traveled in the world and made his way on his own. Besides that, certain of the other scholars in Kitching’s school had a way of getting on David’s nerves.
The main problem was one Andrew Duff, who began as David’s friend and quickly became his enemy. Duff was the biggest, oldest, and perhaps the most intelligent of Kitching’s pupils, and his favorite. To Kitching’s face he was unctiously respectful, almost worshipful; when Kitching’s back was turned, he would imitate the man’s rather peculiar crumpling smile, which was generally described among the pupils as making Kitching’s round, wrinkled face look like a “dried-up tater.” Duff could mimic the smile to near perfection, and used his skill to inflict a tormenting amusement on the other students, who of course didn’t dare laugh out loud for fear of alerting Kitching.
At the time David entered Kitching’s school, he was of a frame of mind that placed a high value on cleverness. This resulted mostly from the reaction of his brothers to his story of how he had gotten his colorful revenge on Kelso in the incident on the trail to Virginia. He related the tale on the way to the first day of school, and his brothers thought it uproarious and praised David profusely for his cleverness. For the first time, David realized that wit could do more than entertain. It could win a person the respect of others.
He was thinking about that when he saw Duff’s mimicry of old Kitching the first time. It was like a moment of inspiration. In Duff he instantly perceived a worthy mentor.
When the school turned out for the midday meal, David made a point of meeting Duff, and with toe scuffing dirt and eyes on the ground, mumblingly told him of his admiration. Duff accepted the praise with haughty satisfaction, and allowed David to share his company while they ate.
Their friendship, born quickly, died the same way. David had proudly seated himself beside Duff in the little classroom, while Duff looked appropriately indifferent. The day’s lessons began, Kitching went through his usual lectures and gestures, and David waited for his chance. Kitching eventually gave it to him. He came to David’s seat, asked him a language question—which David failed utterly to answer—then turned away. David glanced at Duff, then did an imitation of Kitching’s smile, just as Duff was about to do the same.
Duff’s eyes became cold as gray iron. He gave David a look of astonishment that rapidly evolved to anger. At the same time, a quiet gasp of admiration whispered through the class. David’s mimicry of Kitching’s smile had been even closer to the real thing than Duff’s best effort of the past.
Kitching heard the murmur and turned. His eye, guided by schoolmaster’s intuition, swept to David. “Mr. Crockett,” he said, “are you providing some sort of—of diversion for your fellow scholars while my back is turned?”
“No sir.”
“It ain’t true,” Duff said. “He was mimicking you, Mr. Kitching.”
“Oh?” Kitching replied, brows lifted. “Is this true, Mr. Crockett?”
“No sir,” David said. He was stunned. Duff, whom he so admired, had betrayed him!
Duff’s small-boned little sister, who sat in the back of the room and who was known to adults for miles around as “a fine young woman,” and who had been extolled from three local pulpits as an incarnate example of decency and honesty, raised her hand. “That’s not true, Mr. Kitching. He did do it. I saw him.”
David turned and gave her a silent snarl. She looked at him down her nose, with brows arrogantly lifted.
Kitching advanced. “You will spend an extra hour in this schoolroom today, Mr. Crockett, after everyone else has gone home. I’ll remain with you, and you may work on the additional assignment you will receive as a special gift from me to you.”
After that, David Crockett had no more use for either Kitching or Duff. His hatred festered and seethed, and the desire for vengeance—particularly against Duff—burned like fever.
The next day he found a seat far across the room from Duff, and spent the morning lost in dark plans. Kitching strode about and lectured, but to David he was merely a noisemaking, moving mass of dull color. By midday David had made up his mind about how best to deal with Duff.
There was nothing subtle or witty about his plan this time. Duff deserved a straightforward thrashing, nothing less, and David intended to provide it.
During the afternoon spelling period, David found his opportunity to escape. Kitching was occupied with some of the older students, including Duff, and while his back was turned, David slipped out of the classroom and headed toward the outhouse in the yard. He did not return, but instead slipped down the road and hid himself in the roadside brush. He knew Duff’s daily route homeward. He would pass this way.
The next thing David was aware of was awakening suddenly to the sound of voices on the road. He had dozed off in the thicket. He sat up on his knees, rubbing his eyes, then peered out through the brush. It was Duff! He was coming down the road with his sister at his side. David stood, clenching his fists, tensing his muscles, trying to quickly regain the sense of determination that sleep had taken from him.
Duff let out a yell of alarm when David emerged from the brush in a leap. The girl screeched and dropped her books. “I’ll whup you, horseface!” David shouted. The girl screeched again and hid her face. “Not you!” David clarified. “Him!” And then he tore into Duff, fingers spread like a wildcat’s paws, and raked a long, bloody series of scratches down the left side of Duff’s face.
Duff howled and fell back, grappling at his own face. His sister wept in the background. David lunged forward again, pounding his fists into Duff’s belly, then followed up with a punch to his chin. In the meantime, others of Kitching’s scholars were coming up the road and discovering the violent spectacle. In moments David and his foe were surrounded by a circle of yelling, cheering boys, urging on the fight.
In truth, it wasn’t much of a fight. By all objective standards, Duff should have won, having superior height, weight, and reach. What he lacked was the will and the skill. He was a joker, not a fighter, and within two minutes he was on his back, David straddling him, raining blows onto his face and chest, Duff crying and trying to cover his nose to keep it from being broken.
“Make him say uncle, Davy!” one of the onlookers urged.
“Say uncle!” David yelled.
“Uncle!” Duff shouted.
“Uncle who?”
&n
bsp; “Uncle Davy!”
“I can’t hear you!”
“Uncle Davy! Uncle Davy!”
David exhaled slowly. Great dollops of sweat dripped from him. “That’s good. That’s fine. You’ve been whupped, Duff.”
He got up, panting for breath, and brushed himself off. His clothing was disheveled and he was covered with dirt. Immediately he was surrounded, his shoulders pounded in admiration, his hands grasped and shaken vigorously. David grinned. He was a victor, and it felt good. Duff rose and limped away, his weeping sister giving him ineffectual comfort.
David straightened his clothing as best he could and washed himself off at a nearby stream. By the time he was home, his exhilaration had faded. He prayed his parents would not somehow detect he had been fighting. Lately his father had been drinking quite a lot, and growing more stern than ever. David didn’t want to think about how John Crockett might react if he found out what had happened.
He was fortunate. John was busy through the late afternoon, and drinking in the evening, and took no notice of any of his children. Rebecca gave David a strange look or two, but said nothing.
The next morning David awakened with a sobering realization. Surely Duff would make sure that Kitching learned every brutal detail of the fight. Given Kitching’s affection for his favorite pupil, David knew full well that all he had to look forward to at school was retaliation of the fiercest variety.
He discussed his fears with his siblings on the way to school, and received no comfort. “There’s only one thing for you to do,” Wilson said. “You’ll have to lay out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Stay out of school until old Kitching cools off. None of us will tell Mama or Pap … will we?” He looked around at the other Crocketts.
All gave their pledge of secrecy, and David headed for the woods, where he idled away the day. The next few days were the same. David began enjoying this life of leisure and woodland recreation. By gum, he had won his vengeance over Duff and gotten away with it!
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