Crockett of Tennessee

by Judd, Cameron

  Despite the darkness, David was now able to see and recognize the two who had come with Canaday. One was Cyril Andrews, a local constable. David was overjoyed. A constable might be able to stop this unlawful reprisal. But an even greater wave of happiness swept over him when he recognized the man standing beside and partially supported by Andrews. It was Henry Cummings himself, not only alive, but walking! David thought that he was surely witnessing an authentic miracle.

  Canaday dug a folding knife from somewhere under his plain broadcloth coat and dropped it within David’s reach. “No time to free thee, my boy,” he said. “I’ll leave that to thee. We must off over the hill, good men, and be hasty about it!”

  With the corpulent Quaker in the lead and Andrews struggling to keep the wobbly-footed Cummings upright and moving forward, the trio advanced on to the ridgetop and then across. David, meanwhile, had managed with bound hands and teeth to get the knife open, and began sawing at the ropes, all the while straining to hear what was happening across the ridge.

  It seemed the ropes would never give way, and David cursed the dull knife as he sawed vigorously. At last he was free, and he stood, made a lunge to begin his race up the ridge, and fell flat, having forgotten the hobbling of his ankles. He dropped the knife when he fell and had to feel around in the dark for it, which took up some two more minutes. The sounds from across the ridge were less audible during that time, possibly because the wind had shifted, or maybe because the arrival of Henry Cummings had led to change in the violent mood of his avengers.

  David’s groping finally unearthed the knife. He sawed his rope shackles in two, so that halves of it trailed behind each of his feet when he raced up the ridge.

  He stopped at the crest to examine the scene below. There stood the mob, gathered around the mouth of the cave from which the spring ran. By the torchlight David made out the figures of Canaday, the constable, and Crider Cummings, who stood facing his brother, hands extended and resting on the latter’s shoulders. Henry, standing in a slumped, weak posture, seemingly leaning much of his weight into Crider’s hands, spoke and gestured limply. David watched as Crider led his brother back to a nearby boulder and sat him down. Still talking, Henry gingerly rubbed the left side of his head, apparently where Persius had laid him the strongest blow.

  But where was Persius? David scanned around and could not find him. Rubbing his wrists, he descended to the clump of people below. Several hostile stares from among the mob greeted his arrival, but he detected a general dearth of interest in him now that Henry Cummings had showed up. He wondered if any of these men were embarrassed, having been ready to hang or shoot Persius Tarr for murder, only to have the supposed murder victim walk right into their midst.

  David passed the Cummings brothers and the constable, and went to Canaday. “Where is Persius?” he asked in a near whisper.

  “Nowhere to be found,” Canaday replied in equally soft tones. “There are signs he has been here very recently, but he is not here now. The hounds have been bewildered, sniffing around the spring. And there are tracks, leading into the water. These men were ready to head down the creek to follow when we showed up with Henry Cummings, which seems to have changed their plans.”

  David looked down the spring, then back to where it ran out of the cavern … and then he knew where Persius was. His mind clasped around the knowledge like a hand, and held it fast and hidden. Despite the pain that throbbed through his skull where Crider’s rifle butt had struck him, a faint smile tugged around the corners of David’s mouth.

  The constable cleared his throat. “Men, every one of you should get on home now. There’s been no murder, as you can see with your own eyes. And Henry Cummings says the fight was mostly his own fault. He holds no grudge against Persius Tarr for it. So there’s nothing to be done but to put all this behind, and be grateful you didn’t find and hang a man for a crime that ain’t even been committed.”

  Crider turned and spoke. “There may be no crime in your eyes, Constable, but there’s one in mine! Persius Tarr is a nuisance and a blight on this community, and he ought to be got rid of.”

  “Leave it be, Crider,” Henry said in a very weak voice.

  “You should listen to your brother, Crider,” Andrews said. “If you do harm to Persius Tarr based on no more than your own grudge, it may be you facing the charge of murder. Now move on. Get on home with you all.”

  “Why are you defending Tarr?” one of the others asked. “He’s a scoundrel and thief, and you know it.”

  “I do, and the first chance that comes to prove that he is, I’ll jail him with a smile on my face for the privilege. I ain’t defending Persius Tarr. I’m defending the law, and doing things as they ought to be done.”

  Crider said, “I ain’t forgetting what Persius Tarr did.”

  “It wasn’t his fault so much as mine,” Henry said, but his voice was so low and tremulous that his words carried no weight to break the wall of resentment Crider had built around himself.

  Slowly, though, the group dispersed, many grumbling that they hadn’t had the chance to look downstream. Surely Tarr had run there, keeping to the water to confuse the dogs. The constable left with the Cummings brothers; David figured he wanted to keep his eye on Crider for a while longer.

  “Well, David, I’m pleased no violence was done here,” Canaday said. “But where, I wonder, is Persius Tarr?”

  “I believe I know,” David replied. He went to the mouth of the cave and knelt. He called back into the darkness. “Persius! You in there? This here’s David—it’s safe for you to come out now. They’ve all gone away.”

  David stood and backed off, eyes on the cave, the mouth of which was no more than three feet high, and which grew lower farther back. Within a few moments the water moved strangely and it seemed some giant fish was trying to squeeze its way out. But it was no fish, it was Persius. After a time of struggling and splashing, bubbling and blowing, he was fully out of the cave. He rose in the spring, looking for all the world like some water spirit separating itself from the stream that incarnates it, and stepped, shivering and soaked, onto the bank beside David.

  “It pools up into a little room back inside there, you know,” he said. “I could stand up in there. I knowed about it before I went in. A fellow like me’s got to have him a hiding spot or two handy from time to time, so I always search out a place or two like that. God! I’m cold. That water’s still winter-chilled.”

  “Did you hear me yell the warning?” David asked.

  “Warning? I didn’t hear no warning. At first it was like I could feel them coming, you know. I went up on the ridgetop, and came a-scrambling down here at first sound of them. Then down into the cave.”

  “Oh.” David was a little let down. Persius probably was already safe in his watery cave even before he yelled. It didn’t seem quite fair. He had taken a rifle butt in the head, not to mention several hard kicks, for daring to give that warning shout.

  “Persius Tarr, I’m pleased that no harm has come to thee,” Canaday said.

  The darkness hid Persius’s features, but David could easily imagine the expression they held in response to Canaday: one of uncertainty, caution. Persius didn’t feel comfortable around the Quaker, with his odd dress, antiquated speech, and easy talk about the “Light of Christ” and the “divine presence” that he believed lived inside each person. Canaday had always been kind and respectful to Persius, ignoring his reputation and treating him as if he was the equal of any man. Perhaps it was that, as much as anything, that bewildered Persius.

  “How did you know where to come with Henry Cummings?” David asked.

  Canaday laid out the story. With much gentle care, washings with cold water, and very fervent exhortations and prayers, he and his family had managed to bring Henry Cummings back to consciousness more quickly than had initially appeared possible. Henry hadn’t been hurt nearly as badly as had been thought. And his ordeal must have cleared his head, because he was quick to take blame for the fight
with Persius Tarr, and horrified to learn that his brother had already set out to avenge his supposed murder. With effort, he had managed to get up and walk. He believed he knew where Persius could be found, he had said. Lately Persius had mentioned in passing that he was staying at the “springside cabin.” Canaday had saddled his horse, and with Henry riding behind him on the same mount, arms around Canaday’s broad middle to keep from falling, they had set out toward the most likely springside cabin either of them knew about. To their good fortune, it had been the right one.

  “Did George Watkins meet you?” David asked.

  “Aye. And when the good man saw our injured friend had been resurrected, he turned tail and ran back the way he came. I didn’t understand why. There was no time to ask. We went on until we reached this place.”

  “I’m grateful,” Persius mumbled.

  “Give thanks to our heavenly father, Persius,” Canaday replied. “I was nothing but his servant.”

  David explained the odd actions of George Watkins. “By the time he returned to the road, Crider and all of us had already gone on, I suppose. He may not yet know what’s happened. It serves him right for tying himself in with such a fool as Crider Cummings.”

  “Don’t speak so of another man,” Canaday said. “It is not seemly nor right.”

  Persius shook Canaday’s hand. “It was you bringing Henry here that saved me. If you hadn’t done that, they would have kept searching until they found me. Somebody would have figured out about that cave. I owe you a debt.”

  “God has given much cleverness to thee, my friend. To hide in the very bowels of the earth! Hah!”

  “Persius, there may still be trouble for you,” David said.

  “I know it. Crider has it in for me. He’ll still have it in for me, no matter what his brother tells him.”

  “Why’d you two fight?”

  “I don’t remember. We was both drinking. Wasn’t nothing much, whatever it was. I reckon I shoved him too hard. He knocked his head on the corner of the table, and I just walked out. It never come to me till later that he might have died, or that somebody might come after me over it. I’m sorry it happened. Henry’s a friend of mine. I never wanted to hurt him.”

  “You’d best be scarce for a while, I believe.”

  “I will. I’ll head off somewhere.”

  “You come back, though. Sometime. I don’t want you going off for good, Persius.”

  “I’ll come back.”

  Canaday said, “For now, come with us, my friend. I can offer thee a hardy meal, and whatever victuals that can be spared. My house is a safe house, and I extend thee my welcome.”

  Persius scuffed his foot, shivering in the wind. “I thank you,” he said. “I am right hungry. Let me fetch my possessions out of the cabin, what few of them there be.”

  Chapter 20

  Persius Tarr’s discomfort in the presence of John Canaday was not shared in the slightest by David. He always felt relaxed around the old Quaker, even though there was little in common between them.

  Foremost among their asimilarities was the fact that Canaday was sixty-two years old—for his era, quite an old man. He was seldom perceived to be as old as he was, however; he was so hardy as to hide his years well. Many took him for ten or fifteen years younger than he really was. He was respected widely, and known for his honesty and adherence to his religious beliefs. His religiosity made his Scots-Irish neighbors wary and cautious sometimes, but generally he won them over by the sheer goodness of his ways.

  And by now Jefferson Countymen were simply accustomed to Quakers. Plain-dressing Friends had lived in the county since 1784. In 1797, two years after Canaday’s own move to Tennessee, the local Quakers had formalized themselves into the Lost Creek Monthly Meeting of Friends. The Quaker population had grown steadily, though the prior year had seen the beginning of what would be a massive migration of Quakers to parts of the country north of the Ohio River.

  Canaday was one of the most distinguished members of the Meeting, perceived by many as a patriarch. He had been equally respected back in Guilford County, North Carolina, where he had been part of the New Garden Monthly Meeting on Cane Creek, and from where he had migrated west into Tennessee, settling in the vicinity of the Panther Springs community, some miles west of John Crockett’s tavern.

  As owner of the land where John Crockett had built his tavern, Canaday was John’s biggest creditor. David had not realized the extent of his father’s indebtedness when he first approached Canaday for work. If he had, likely he wouldn’t have approached him at all, for by that time David had taken his fill of working to pay off John Crockett’s obligations. Such labors had filled his time almost fully since his return from wandering.

  Shortly after his homecoming, David had been sent to work for one Abraham Wilson, who ran a tavern near the Panther Springs settlement, owning land on the main Holston Road and a road that led to Bean’s Station. John Crockett owed Wilson thirty-six dollars, and it had required six straight months of David’s labor to work off that debt. When that time was up, David left Wilson’s employ, though he was vigorously invited to stay. He disliked the seedy character of many of the drinkers and gamblers who frequented Wilson’s tavern—a shadier lot than John Crockett’s patrons. Several times David had brushed up against trouble from some of these ruffians, and had not enjoyed it at all. This was more Persius Tarr’s kind of situation than his—Persius, in fact, spent much time at the tavern, enjoying it as much as David hated it. David left Wilson’s employment with a great sense of relief.

  He had met Canaday a time or two during his work at Wilson’s, and went to him asking for hire. Canaday took him on, for two shillings a day, on trial, and at the end of a week offered him full-time employment. The Quaker laid out his offer: if David would work for room and board for six months, Canaday would discharge John Crockett’s remaining forty-dollar debt. In the meantime, David would have a good and safe home, and be treated well. Would he do it?

  He probably wouldn’t have, if not for Canaday’s winning ways and excellent character. That character had a good effect on David; simply being around the kind man made him want to do good things, to improve himself, to become fine and admirable. Under this influence, it crossed his mind, fully to his surprise, that it might be a noble thing to work off another of his father’s debts, this time without John Crockett even asking it of him. He imagined his father’s face when he handed him the paid-off note; he imagined the sense of camaraderie and closeness that such a gesture would bring and that had been generally lacking between himself and his father. This might be the best opportunity he would ever find to make his father truly proud of him, to remove the grudging quality from John Crockett’s affection.

  And so David had accepted Canaday’s offer, and taken up lodging in a gable of the Quaker’s house. Come summer, John Crockett’s note would be paid off, and David planned to carry it to his father himself, just for the pleasure of surprising him. He was looking forward to it—and in the interim, he was happy in the home of John Canaday. As happy as he had been anywhere in his life.

  Canaday, David, and Persius reached the farmhouse and entered. There they ate a fine meal, and Canaday packed Persius a big bag of food.

  “We would be pleased to have thee stay the night,” Canaday offered Persius, but the latter declined.

  “Reckon I’ll be going. I thank you, sir.”

  “Good-bye, Persius,” David said. “Keep yourself out of trouble.”

  “I will. I’ll be seeing you, David. ’Bye.”

  He walked off into the darkness, the sack of food slung across his shoulders. Out in the night he began to whistle on old Irish tune. Not until the last strains of it had faded out of hearing did David close Canaday’s door and climb up to his gable bed, thoroughly worn out and aching for sleep. It took a long time to come, however, because his head throbbed where the rifle had struck it, and he could feel every place he had taken a kick.

  One of these days, he might just hav
e to settle the score with Crider Cummings, who had treated him mighty ill. Just because David Crockett lived with a pacifist Quaker didn’t mean he had to be one himself. John Canaday might have a cooling influence on his fiery Scots-Irish blood, but not even he could chill it completely.

  Summer 1803

  For about half a year David Crockett had not laid eyes on his family, though John Crockett’s tavern stood within a relatively easy ride from Canaday’s house. David had made himself several excuses for his failure to visit: he was too busy; he owned no horse; he didn’t want to risk the chance of John Crockett asking him about his pay, ruining a certain great surprise David had in store for him when the note was worked off. Only the latter reason had much validity. There had been many occasions when David would have had time for a visit home, and Canaday would have loaned him a horse anytime he needed it. The real reason he hadn’t returned home, as he knew but didn’t like to admit to himself, was that he was happier at Canaday’s house.

  Today, however, he would return, bearing in his hand the note Canaday had held against John Crockett. It was a defunct note now, paid off by months of steady labor, and David was eager to put it in his father’s hand. This was the surprise he had long planned to give his father.

  Canaday loaned him a horse, and he set out. Odd, how nervous he felt, heading home again after being away so long. He had sent no announcement of his impending visit. He anticipated the moment of arrival with a mix of eagerness and dread. Would it be difficult to talk with his parents? Just how far away from them had he grown while at Canaday’s?

  It was Sunday, a day David had grown up calling “the Lord’s Day,” as his mother had always termed it. Over his time at Canaday’s, that habit had been broken. Typical of the Friends, Canaday didn’t accept Sunday as the “Lord’s Day” above any other day of the week. Every day was the Lord’s, he declared. There ought not be an hour of the week when a man wasn’t worshiping, if not outwardly, at least deep inside himself.