Early one morning, well before daybreak, David rose, gathered his clothing and a little food, and set out on foot. He had no money, nothing of value at all except the little scrap of silver his uncle Jimmy had given him. If it came to it, he decided, he would exchange the silver for food and goods—but only if there was no other way to survive. The token remained precious to him in a way that outstripped monetary value.
Alone, cheated, and sad, David Crockett walked silently through the darkness, going nowhere but away from Adam Myers. His mind was miles away, aboard a tall ship, crossing the vast ocean toward England—a place that now, he was confident, he would never have the chance to see.
Pale sunlight streamed over the rolling Virginia landscape. David Crockett, crouched among dogwoods beside the road, looked out cautiously at the scene before him.
Another wagoner, it appeared. A small-time one, judging from the fact he was alone and had but one wagon. The load had shifted, jarring a barrel free from its ties and dumping it out on the road. The wagoner was in the process of climbing down from the driver’s seat, muttering and complaining underneath his breath. David was astounded when he got a good look at him. He was perhaps the biggest man he had ever seen, at least five inches above six feet, and built like one of the barrels he was hauling.
The wagoner mumbled so badly that David could pick out only snatches of what he was saying: mutterings about a “world of sorrows,” and “deuced loose barrels,” how a “man can’t make a living with such as this” and how jolting a barrel loose from a wagon was such a fine way to start the day it made him “want to sit down and read the Bible for thirty minutes.”
Despite his complaining, the problem really was very minor for the big man. David watched admiringly as the fellow flexed his muscles, lifted the massive barrel with hardly a strain, and set it back into place with a grunt.
“You stay there now,” the man said, dusting off his hands. “You fall out again and I’ll kick you to splinters and take the loss.”
David sneezed. It burst from him without warning and couldn’t be stifled. The wagoner turned and looked right toward where he was hidden.
“Who’s there?”
David stood and stepped out onto the road. He felt so dejected and hopeless that he hardly cared that he had been revealed. So what if this wagoner proved to be the same sort of heartless, guileful type David perceived the world to be full of? What further harm could come to a wandering boy who had already lost his money, and the chance to be a sailing man?
“Well, where’d you come from, boy?”
“The woods.”
“I can see that. What’s your name?”
“David Crockett.”
“You come from around here?”
“No. Tennessee.”
“Well, you’re a ways from home.”
“I’m going back. I’ve got nowhere else to go. I was going to be a sailor and go to England, but that was took away from me.”
“Is that right? Well, I can’t take you to England, but if it’s Tennessee you’re heading toward, I can get you part of the way there. I’m going west a ways. Not all the way to Tennessee, but I can take you off your feet for a time.”
The man seemed friendly enough, and David was longing for friendship right now. He felt utterly alone, utterly used up. But he was hesitant to accept this offer, recalling how Adam Myers had been so kind and jovial to begin with, but so harsh and dishonest at the end.
The wagoner stepped forward, hand outthrust. “I’m Myers. Henry Myers.”
Myers! That was all David needed to hear. He had dealt enough with wagoners named Myers already! Without even shaking the proffered hand, he turned and began walking quickly down the road, leaving the big wagoner looking confused.
“What’s wrong, boy? Have I made you mad?”
David felt a wave of sadness and stopped. He turned. “No, sir, it’s only that …” He began to cry.
The wagoner stepped closer. “Son, it looks like your day has commenced even worser than mine. Is there anything I can help you with?”
David was full to overflowing with his sorrows, and began spilling out his tale to Henry Myers. When he was done, Myers’s face was red and he was storming and fuming, infuriated to learn of the treachery of David’s prior companion.
“The worst of it is, he’s sullying up the good name of Myers,” Henry Myers said. “I’ll not stand for that! David, you take me to this Adam Myers, and by jings, we’ll get you your seven dollars, or I’m a hop-toad!”
Adam Myers moaned and wailed and repented with a fervor seldom seen short of the church-front mourner’s bench. Henry Myers towered over the deceitful man and forced him to admit his crime. Yes, he had taken David’s money under false pretense, and had spent it. He couldn’t pay it back at the moment, but would gladly do so once he reached Tennessee.
David knew this would never happen. Probably he would never see Adam Myers again. Even so, he felt satisfied. The scoundrel had been shamed and punished, and that would have to be good enough.
David had a grin on his face when he and Henry Myers rode off together on Henry’s big wagon. They left Adam Myers cringing and defeated, and when David glanced over his shoulder at the first bend and saw his friend-turned-enemy in such a state, he thought it a fine sight indeed.
Henry Myers made good company, but David took a careful attitude toward him still. His experiences had shown him that appearances were not always to be trusted, and that if a fellow was to be cared for, the only sure way was to do the caring for all on his own. From here on out, David Crockett would blindly assume the honesty of no one.
He remained with Henry Myers several more days, moving farther west, and Myers gave him no reason to doubt his goodwill. At length they reached a sort of ordinary or inn where wagoners frequently stayed—this was a much larger, nicer inn than John Crockett’s tavern—and put in for the night.
David was dead tired, and dozed in his seat at the big table, around which a half-dozen wagoners moved and drank and talked loud and coarse, as was typical of their breed. There were others there too, travelers or stage riders or perhaps locals who frequented the place.
The next morning, Henry Myers informed him that he had made a deal with one of the other wagoners and would be heading north briefly before continuing on. Would David want to remain at the inn and then continue with him when he returned?
David thought it over and decided against it. Though he didn’t say so to Henry Myers, he feared that perhaps Adam Myers would show up here, in that wagoners apparently knew and frequented the place. No, he said. He would go on as before, on foot, and carry with him gratitude for all Henry had done.
Just before he left, Henry gave David another cause for gratitude. He went among the other wagoners and described David as a homeless, straggling little boy, alone in the world and mistreated by a previous companion who was “not worthy of his last name.” Perhaps the good men in the inn could throw together a few cents to help a young traveler in need?
The appeal worked to the tune of three dollars, and David set out better off than when he had come in. Using his money as sparingly as he could, he went as far as Montgomery Courthouse, and there found himself destitute again.
He sought work and found it with a farmer named James Caldwell, who paid him about a shilling a day until he had accumulated five dollars after a month of labor.
The end of this employment found David in the midst of another spell of disinterest in an immediate return home. He bound himself to a hatmaker named Elijah Griffin, working for him eighteen months, until Griffin abruptly absconded. Like David’s father, he was prone to debt, and when he left, David had not received any of the pay he had been promised. It was yet one more lesson for the young Tennessean on the selfish ways of men.
It was early in the year 1802, and fifteen-year-old David Crockett was in a sad condition. He had no money, and his clothes were little more than rags. Lacking any other recourse, he looked for more work, and fou
nd it only in fits and spurts, here and there. He was tempted to sell his silver piece, but resisted. It was the only tangible link he had to his earlier days and home.
At length he turned toward Tennessee again, astounded that what had begun as an impulsive flight to avoid a beating had turned into such a lengthy and colorful journey of life. He was much different now than when he had begun. Physically he was almost a man. His voice had deepened, his shoulders had broadened.
He was beginning to look something like his father. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that, just as he hadn’t always been sure how to feel about John Crockett.
Chapter 17
The night was stormy and wet, hammered by a relentless wind. David paused on the road, drenched to the skin, trembling and miserable, and gazed helplessly across the tumultuous New River, despairing of finding a way to the other side.
He looked behind him, into the dark. He couldn’t have counted the number of times he had done that in the last two hours since he left a rugged little tavern in which he had taken shelter from the worst of the storm. That stop, he had quickly learned, had been a mistake. Inside he had found a big crowd, including a gang of six men who had been working on a nearby road; they too had been driven to shelter by the weather. Or so was the pretext. From their actions, David believed they hadn’t so much been driven in by the liquid raining down from the sky as drawn in by the liquid they were pouring down their own throats in prodigious quantities.
Something about him seemingly hadn’t been to the liking of a couple of the drunken road workers, who set in to harassing him, poking at him, trying to make him fight. After twenty minutes of this, David decided that the storm would be far more pleasant company than the drunks, and left the tavern, grateful he had escaped serious trouble.
Ahead he saw a little dock with some boats tied, and a small hut from which light spilled and smoke rose from the chimney to be whipped away by the wind. David went to the door and knocked. He asked the man who answered if he might purchase a ride across the river—and the man cursed him for a fool and told him that anyone who crossed the river with such whitecaps rising and lightning flashing was asking for an early death. He slammed the door, and no amount of knocking would bring him back.
David returned to the road, more determined than ever to find a crossing. That was when he first realized he was being followed.
It was tremendously unsettling. Who would follow him on such a night, except for unfriendly reasons? He wished he hadn’t entered that tavern. Someone in the place must have decided he would be an easy robbery victim, and followed him out to do the job.
David headed down the road all the faster. Now he had to get across the river, else he wouldn’t feel safe at all. He would rather risk capsizing and drowning than the stabbing point of a highway robber’s blade.
Ahead he saw another house, boats tied to a covered dock beside it. He went to the door, knocked, and was again rebuffed. This time he argued more vehemently. If only he could buy use of a canoe, he would make the crossing himself, and would tie the canoe on the far bank. At last the man relented, and charged a price far higher than was justified. David turned over the money with an ache of regret. Considering everything, however, he did not feel he had a choice. He lashed his pack as securely as possible in the canoe and set off across the churning water.
Never would he forget that crossing. His canoe was turned and battered, half filling with water, and moving with the current much faster than it traveled across it. By the time he struck the far bank, he was nearly two miles downstream from where he had set off. He tied up the canoe, offering a prayer of thanks to the heavens for his survival, thinking too how furious the canoe’s owner would be to find it so far from his home. But that was his problem, David thought. He had plenty of his own to worry about.
He lifted his pack and was turning to go when a lightning flash illuminated the river, and he saw another canoe out there in the darkness. From what little he could see in such an infinitesimal moment, it appeared there was only one occupant in that canoe.
Now there was no question about it. He was certainly being followed, by some very determined person. But why? Surely no common robber would risk the danger of the river crossing merely to take what meager gleanings he would find on such an obviously impoverished pilgrim as David Crockett.
David went on, looking for light in the darkness, sniffing the air for wood smoke, seeking any sign of shelter. A mile, then two, then three, fell away behind him. Still no shelter. And still the sense of being followed lingered, actually grew.
Then, through the trees, he saw a light. Heading for it, he made out the outline of a house. He went to it and knocked, and found a grizzled, skinny old man, as ancient and gnarled as a virgin oak, looking back at him.
“I’m looking for shelter for the night,” David said. “Could I find it here?”
“Come inside, boy, and warm yourself,” the old fellow said, and more welcome words David had never heard.
The fire was hot and soothing, as was the liquor the old man poured into his cup. David’s tension, and his nervousness at being followed, diminished. The log walls around him were thick and sheltering, shutting out danger.
The old man laid him a pallet on the loft upstairs, where the rising heat from the fire made ideal sleeping conditions for a young man who had been chilled clean through. David slept very soundly, hardly stirring all night.
When he awakened the next morning, the first thing he noticed was that his little pouch containing the silver piece was gone. He sat upright with a jerk and groped around him. It wasn’t there. He hadn’t lost it in his blankets. It had been taken.
David climbed down the loft ladder, ready to accuse the old man and get back his silver. At that moment he hated the whole of humanity. Was there no one on the earth who wasn’t a thief or scoundrel?
At the base of the ladder he stopped. The old man was there, by the fireside. Another man was with him, this one much younger, and a stranger. David lifted his finger, intending to aim it into the old man’s face and voice his charge—then he looked again at the stranger.
But he wasn’t a stranger. David had seen that face somewhere before, though he couldn’t place just where, or what name had been attached to it.…
The newcomer lifted his hand and opened it. On the palm lay David’s silver piece.
“I thought you would want it back,” he said. “It was took from you in the tavern by some of them who was being rough on you. I was there, and seen it happen. It took some doing to get it back, I’ll tell you, but I ain’t worried. I didn’t cut him too deep. He’ll live. But I tell you, I thought I’d never catch up with you. ’Specially crossing that river.”
David took the silver and closed his hand around it. He smiled.
“I’m grateful,” he said. “That silver was give me by my deaf-and-dumb uncle.” David put out his hand for a shake. “It’s fine to see you again, Persius Tarr.”
Persius shook the hand. “Not nearly as fine as seeing you, David Crockett. It’s been a long spell, ain’t it? Just little children, that’s all we was. But I ain’t never forgot you. And I ain’t forgot your mother. She was kind to me. Is she still living?”
“Yes … or I believe she is. I ain’t been home in a long time.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story, Persius. I’ll tell it if you want to hear it. And I’d sure like to hear yours, if you’ll tell it.”
For days they were together, traveling and talking, moving closer and closer to David’s home. Persius’s story was every bit as fascinating as David had anticipated, and every bit as gritty. It was, without question, the story of a criminal life. From the time he had fled his court-imposed bondage in Tennessee, Persius had been a youth on the run. He had found some legitimate work, but mostly he had stolen. Everything from pigs and saddles to bread cooling on windows, and from money to horses. Persius made no apologies, and as best David could tell, no attempts to hide his sins.
He did note, however, that while in Virginia he never used his true name, because he was known there as a horse thief.
David recounted to him the story of how he had himself commandeered Persius’s name while traveling home from his first droving venture, and how he had unexpectedly picked up news of Persius’s infamy because of it. Persius laughed heartily, and told David he was fortunate that his companion had been so easygoing. Many would have quickly turned “Persius Tarr” over to the nearest constable or magistrate, or worse, simply strung him up or shot him.
To David, the most remarkable aspect of all of it was that Persius Tarr still held interest in someone he had met for only a few days in childhood. The strength of that interest was evidenced in the amount of trouble Persius had put himself to, following him across the whirling New River.
David was interested in Persius in turn, just as much as when he had been a sprout on Cove Creek, looking up to the dark-eyed young stranger as a devilishly exciting, worldly taster of the forbidden fruit. Had David possessed more of a philosophical or theological bent and a touch more maturity, he might have speculated about fate or predestination linking their two lives. As it was, he contented himself with enjoying this reunion as an unexpected, happy gift given by circumstance.
In Sullivan County, Tennessee, David thought of his uncle Joseph—not the Uncle Joe who shot the grape picker back in Greene County many years ago, but a brother of John Crockett. Joe Crockett lived in Sullivan County, and David figured he could find the place with a little effort. Money was running low; he feared it would be only a matter of time before Persius suggested thievery, and David wanted none of that. Joe could get them well-fed, maybe even give or lend a little money to see them the rest of the way home.
Joe greeted his nephew with delight, and was friendly to Persius. David was not surprised to learn that his family in Jefferson County was at least half sure he was dead, him having been gone so long and not having followed his brother home from the cattle drove. Rebecca Crockett was particularly suffering, he learned.
Crockett of Tennessee Page 13
