Crockett of Tennessee

by Judd, Cameron

  The volunteers paraded and heard speeches from a lawyer named Francis Jones, who was being touted as the likely commanding officer of the volunteer force. Then David returned home to ready himself for the coming departure to Alabama. Persius declined the invitation to come with him. It would be better for him to remain in town, he said, so as not to impose upon Polly’s hospitality any longer.

  David waved his good-bye; Persius turned and vanished into the crowd. As David rode back toward his home, he wondered if Persius would even be there when he returned, or if he would change his mind yet again and run from this obligation as well. Persius could change quicker than a March wind; there was no predicting his actions.

  Departure was on a Monday. The day prior, David said farewell to his wife and sons and rode away from home, bound for war. Polly put up a strong front for the sake of the boys, not shedding a tear.

  “We’ll need to work hard and be strong while your pap is away,” she counseled the boys. “We want him to be proud of how we’ve taken care of ourselves when he returns.”

  She sat up late that night, feeling very alone, crying very softly so the boys couldn’t hear, and praying for the safety of her headstrong husband.

  Chapter 32

  Persius had not fled, and showed no signs of having wavered from his resolution. He had gathered some extra clothing for himself, by what financial means, David did not know and did not ask. All the Tennessee Volunteer Mounted Riflemen, as they had dubbed themselves, had been advised to pack light. Their term of service was to be short, and heavy packs were a hazard in Indian fighting.

  With Francis Jones in the lead, the contingent traveled in very high spirits toward Alabama. They cheered when they crossed the state line; eagerness to chastise the Creeks was as high as it could get. Plodding on, they reached a point south of Huntsville, called Beaty’s Spring, and there encamped to join their unit with a larger assembly of volunteers. Here they were to await the arrival of regular foot soldiers under Andrew Jackson, Major General of the Tennessee Militia.

  David came to Beaty’s Spring expecting nothing but the usual military practice of rushing about madly, all the sooner to settle in and do nothing for a long time. It was not to be. A second major named John H. Gibson approached the captain of Crockett’s group and asked who were the best riflemen and woodsmen in the band; a small group of capable scouts was being rounded up to make an exploration beyond the Tennessee River to look for signs of Creek activity.

  “There’s the finest bear hunter in Franklin County standing yonder,” the captain said, pointing squarely at David. “He’ll do the job for you, and keep pace with you or any other man.”

  “Then he’s the man I need.” The major approached David. “What’s your name, private?”

  “David Crockett, sir. I’m pleased to meet you, and would be right honored to serve as scout if you desire my service.”

  “I do. Now, pick yourself some companions, private. There’ll be a dozen or so of us altogether.”

  David’s selections were Persius Tarr and one George Russell, son of Franklin County militia major William Russell, an early settler well known by David. George Russell was quite young; he looked extremely boyish standing there with rifle in hand. David didn’t worry about that at all; he knew the kind of marksman and woodsman that Russell was. David was, however, concerned about Persius, who wasn’t nearly so skilled and whom he had selected because of friendship. He held out hope that Persius would protest his selection and try to get out of the dangerous job, and was secretly disappointed when he stepped forward readily, looking eager.

  Major Gibson, meanwhile, was eyeing George Russell. “This man’s hardly a man at all,” he said. “This is no job for smooth-cheeked boys.”

  David felt a surge of iritation. Had he not been given authority to choose whom he pleased? “With all respect, Major, it ain’t his beard that interests me, but his skill. If it was beards we were judging by, a goat would have the best of a man.”

  A muffled chuckle passed through the group. Major Gibson did not laugh. “Private, you stand on the brink of impertinence … but I’ll overlook it, given the good report I’ve heard of you. Very well. I’ll accept your selections. We’ll set out in the morning, so get some rest. The others are already selected and waiting.”

  Fourteen in number and led by Major Gibson himself, they rode by morning light to the river, where they crossed at Ditto’s Landing and went on. David liked the feel of being part of a small and elite group, though he was equally aware of the danger they were all in. The danger would heighten the farther they advanced toward the Creek nation. In any event, they found no sign of Indians that day, and seven miles south of the landing put up to camp for the night.

  They had just completed their supper when the posted watch sang out that a lone man approached. The camp came to its feet, taking up arms, and watched as the guard ushered in a smiling woodsman with keen black eyes that flashed from face to face, the smile never fading. David noticed that when he looked at Persius, he held his gaze a little longer than on anyone else.

  He said his name was John Haynes, and he was a former Indian trader in this region—an announcement that made Persius start noticeably, rousing David’s curiosity. Did the group need a knowledgeable “pilot” to lead them in this unknown country? Major Gibson quickly accepted. The scouts resettled themselves, smoking and chewing and keeping their eyes on the night instead of the fire, so no one could catch them light-blind. All took time to appreciate the heat and comfort given by the fire, knowing that future camps would probably be cold ones, once they were so close to the Creeks that fires would be too risky.

  Haynes and Gibson talked for a long time, off to themselves. David and Persius lounged near the fire, Persius smoking a pipe and keeping his eye on Haynes, David chewing a willow twig.

  “Did you notice how Haynes looked so hard at you?” David asked Persius.

  “No,” Persius said. “He didn’t look at me no different than at anybody else.” His slightly petulant tone belied what he said. David puzzled over it. What did this newcomer know of Persius Tarr, and why was Persius reluctant to acknowledge him?

  A minute later Haynes and the major parted, and the former headed straight toward David and Persius. Persius came to his feet. “Old bladder needs a draining all at once,” he said quickly, walking away into the woods.

  Now there was another curiosity! There was no misperception about it: Persius didn’t want to meet this old Indian trader … which only made David want to meet him all the more.

  “Howdy, sir,” he said, standing and putting out his hand. “I’m David Crockett, private. Volunteer.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Private Crockett. John Haynes, at your service.”

  “Glad to have along a man who knows this country. It’s all strange to me and most all of us.”

  “Yes. Tell me, wasn’t there another man here with you a minute ago?”

  “There was. He headed into the woods for a leak. Why? You know him?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’m thinking I might have known some of his kin in the past. He surely puts me in mind of a man I knew many a year ago. His name was Tarr. Mick Tarr.”

  It took much restraint for David to maintain a blank countenance. “Tarr, you say? Well, my friend’s name is Campbell.”

  “Oh? Well, he for certain bears a strong resemblance to old Mick Tarr. It’s been a long time since I seen Mick. For all I know, he’s dead now. Last I heard of him, he was heading north up into Tennessee or maybe Kentucky. I don’t remember which.”

  David’s mind was racing as fast as his heart. For all the time he and Persius had spent together through the years, Persius was still largely a mystery. Where were his roots? What kind of life had he lived? Just who was Mick Tarr, and what kind of man had he been, apart from his most obvious trait of having been a terrible father to his son? What had been his trade? Who had been Persius’s mother? David sensed that he was just now being handed the opportunity to l
earn the answers to these kinds of questions. But he would have to proceed carefully, in order to preserve the secret of Persius’s identity.

  “Tarr,” he said. “That’s a peculiar name. I’ve found that peculiar names generally go with peculiar folk. That true in this case?”

  “Oh, yes indeed. Mick Tarr was a case, I’ll tell you! Why, I could tell you tales about him and his woman.…”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind hearing them. I enjoy a good tale.”

  John Haynes was gone and David Crockett was deliberately snoring in his blankets, pretending to sleep, when Persius returned from the woods. Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he felt Persius approach, sensed him leaning over to look at him. It was remarkably hard to feign sleep with Persius examining him so closely. In a few moments Persius went away to his own bedroll about fifteen feet away, and David relaxed. He did not want to be faced with talking to Persius just now. Not with what he had just learned from Haynes.

  When he was sure Persius was asleep, he rolled over, his back toward Persius’s sleeping place, and opened his eyes. He had the answers he had so long wanted, and now that he did, he felt troubled. The things that Haynes had revealed made him understand Persius much better than he had before. And made him feel as well that he had been very wrong to draw Persius into this war. Very wrong indeed.

  David wanted to shake Persius awake and tell him to go, to take no further part in this campaign. This was not properly his fight. He did not belong here.

  But David couldn’t do that, not without revealing to Persius that he had probed out the truth of his most personal secret. All he could do was lie there and feel revolted at what lay ahead for his friend, and guilty for having delved into questions that would have been better left unasked.

  It was another hour before David’s pretended sleep became the real thing, and even then he didn’t rest well.

  The next morning, Persius stayed well away from John Haynes, which was not difficult because the man was thoroughly engaged in conversation with Major Gibson, and did not have time to query Persius in any case. David felt better about matters than he had the night before—funny, how the combination of great weariness and heavy darkness can make a train of thought seem to carry so much more import than they do by daylight. When Persius pulled David aside and told him that from the woods he had observed him talking to Haynes, and then asked him what Haynes had told him, David returned an innocent grin and a shake of the head. “Nothing but idle chatter about bear hunting. That’s all. Why you asking?”

  “No reason,” Persius said. There was a veiled look of relief on his face.

  David heard his name called by Major Gibson. He joined Gibson and Haynes, and was told that the little group was dividing. Gibson would lead one band to the house of a Cherokee named Dick Brown and gather intelligence, while David would lead the remaining men, including Persius and Russell, to the house of Cherokee Dick’s father. Later in the day the two groups would join again at a designated crossroads and share whatever information they had been able to pick up from the Cherokees.

  The groups formed themselves—Persius avoided Haynes and stuck close by David—and went to their destinations. The senior Cherokee had a half-blood Cherokee named Jack Thompson at his home, and Thompson agreed to join the group of scouts; he would meet them that night at the crossroads where they were to rejoin. David and Thompson agreed on owl calls as their signal, and the group proceeded to the crossroads. It was not yet dark, and Gibson had not come. At length David determined that their position was too dangerous with darkness approaching, and led his men deeper into the woods. About ten o’clock he heard Thompson’s owl call, and called back, and within ten minutes the Cherokee had joined them. But David was worried; Gibson still had not returned.

  Morning came; still no Gibson. David mulled the situation and decided that nothing was gained by standing still. He announced to his men that Gibson or no Gibson, they would continue with the mission on which they had been sent. No one disagreed, and with Thompson guiding the way, they advanced in stages toward the Creek nation.

  The first leg took them to a Cherokee town, where they remained a short time before advancing to the home of a white man, married to a Creek woman, who lived on the very edge of the Creek nation. Though distracted by his duties, David did pause to note Persius Tarr’s obvious discomfort in this house.

  The man’s name was Radcliff. He was an able farmer and had an abundance of corn and potatoes, which he shared freely with his visitors and their horses. But though friendly, he worried openly, reporting that only an hour before a band of some ten warriors, painted for battle, had passed his house. Should they return and discover the scouts there, they would kill them all, and Radcliff’s family too.

  Thompson informed David of a settlement of friendly Creeks some miles ahead. David did not want to remain and endanger Radcliff, so on they went again, heading for the Creek encampment. It was night, but the moon was full. Travel was almost as easy by its light as it would have been by day. They had eight miles of ground to cover, Thompson estimated.

  Some miles along, David lifted his head and signaled a halt. He had heard something ahead; now, by looking closely, he could make out forms as well. Two men, riding Indian ponies and armed with rifles, were coming right at them.

  These were almost certainly Creeks—and it was too late to avoid meeting them.

  Chapter 33

  But they weren’t Creeks. They were two black men, very big and strong—brothers who had been stolen out of the slavery of white men and thrown into the slavery of Indians. They had managed to escape, however, and now were making with all due haste away from the Creek nation.

  Because both had the advantage of speaking the Creek language, David asked the brothers to stay on with his band of scouts and serve as interpreters. They discussed this among themselves, and asked for a compromise: one would remain willingly, if the other would be allowed to go on toward Ditto’s Landing. David saw no fault in this plan and agreed.

  The larger and older of the two brothers opted to remain, maintaining that his skill in the Creek tongue was superior to that of his brother, and besides, as the elder, he felt if either were to remain longer in this dangerous country, it should be he. His name was Buford, and David was impressed very favorably with him.

  At last they reached the friendly Creek camp that Thompson had advised them of, and were made welcome. Though weary, Crockett and company were relieved to be in the camp at last, and amused themselves with some of the Indians by holding shooting matches with bows and arrows. Judging from all appearances, these Creeks were glad to have their company. But Buford approached, called him aside, and informed him differently.

  “They are afraid, having white men in their camp,” he said. “They fear the Red Sticks will come and kill all of us, and them along with us.”

  David looked around. He was circled by somber, coppery faces, waiting for his word. He scratched his chin, thought a moment, then said, “Buford, tell these folks that if a Red Stick dares show his face here tonight, I’ll peel the hide off his skull and make myself a moccasin from it.”

  Buford smiled, then turned and translated. The Indians looked from one to another; slowly, smiles spread over their weathered faces, and laughter came. David grinned. They would be allowed to stay, at least for the duration of the night. He was glad; the prospect of leaving and camping alone in this grim country was enough to put fear into the bravest man.

  They tied their horses with saddles and bridles still in place and lay down with rifles in their arms—just in case. The danger of a Red Stick attack was nothing to take lightly. David lay on his back, looking up at the sky and noting how fast his heart was racing. This was a tense time, and with the responsibility of his men’s welfare on his shoulders, it was difficult to relax. He hadn’t known leadership of this degree of importance before. Its mantle didn’t fit his shoulders without some measure of discomfort. But on the other hand, it had its pleasant aspect as well. He wa
s gratified to have been given charge of this little band, and pleased that his authority had been accepted by those in his charge. And so far he hadn’t failed them. They were successfully scouting the territory, and as of yet, no one had attacked them.

  He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. When this Indian campaign was done, he intended to take a good long look at himself and evaluate his future. It might be that the impoverished son of hard-drinking old John Crockett could make a leader of himself. A military leader, maybe, or perhaps a leader in politics. Now there would be a bit of authority worth having! If his own father, with all his lackings and weaknesses, had successfully served as a constable and magistrate in earlier days, why surely David Crockett, smarter and more educated than his father ever could have hoped to be, could make a prime mayor, state senator … governor?

  David was mulling over such self-aggrandizing fantasies and feeling sleep slowly steal toward him when a loud, piercing scream ripped through his ears like a jagged arrow, and he bolted upright in his blankets, hands squeezing tightly around the stock of his rifle.

  “What the devil—”

  Buford was already on his feet. “I’ll go see, Mr. Crockett.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No. The way things is, you’d best wait. They’ll talk to me better than to you, sir.”

  David knew Buford was right, and waited with impatience, looking around into the darkness. All the others were up now; Persius came to his side. “I ain’t sure I trust that darky. He might be working with the Creeks.”

  “We got to trust him, Persius. Without him we could hardly even communicate with these folks.”

  Buford returned, looking very somber. “An Indian has come in, saying a big war party of Red Sticks has been crossing the river at Ten Islands all day. They’re going to fight General Jackson.”