Crockett of Tennessee

by Judd, Cameron

  “God a’mighty!” Persius said.

  “That’s the kind of intelligence we’ve been looking for, though I hate the news,” David said. “Men, we’ve got to move like foxes with tails afire and get this news back to Ditto’s Landing.”

  Sixty-five miles lay between them and their destination. Along the way back they stopped at Radcliff’s for rest and food, but found his home ominously empty. From there they traveled to the Cherokee town; it too was empty, yet with fires still burning. Fear tightened every throat. Such signs of swift flight indicated they were in great danger.

  At length they came to the house of the father of Cherokee Dick Brown, and were given food for themselves and their horses. From there they pushed themselves again toward the main camp, and at mid-morning reached the encampment of Colonel John Coffee.

  Weary, trail-dirty, but fiercely proud of the success of his scouting band, David dismounted and headed straight for Coffee’s headquarters. A sentinel stopped him.

  “State your name, rank, and business, soldier.”

  “My name is David Crockett, private, volunteer with the Tennessee Volunteer Mounted Riflemen under Captain Francis Jones. I was sent out with Major Gibson to scout for activity of the Creeks, and I’ve come to report urgent findings to Colonel Coffee.”

  The sentinel’s expression did not change. “I’ll convey this information to the colonel. You wait here, Private Crockett.”

  David fidgeted outside the little thrown-together log headquarters while the sentinel was inside. A full two minutes later the sentinel emerged and motioned David inside as if his mission was no more important than a water boy’s. Irked, David deliberately jostled the sentinel as he went past. “Beg your pardon,” he mumbled.

  He found the colonel inside, lounging back in a chair behind a desk made of boards across barrels, cleaning beneath his nails with a sharpened twig. David walked up before the desk and saluted.

  “What is it, private?” the colonel asked, yawning.

  “My scouts and I have detected the approach of a large Creek war party, sir, intending to battle General Jackson’s forces.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, fine. Tell me more. How did you discover this?”

  David outlined events since his departure with Gibson’s scouts. The colonel listened, continuing to clean his nails. David was mystified by the man’s casual manner. It was as if Coffee didn’t even believe him.

  Coffee asked a few more questions, and in the end sat up straight in his chair and jotted down a note or two. Then, for the first time, he looked up into David’s face. “Is there anything else, private?”

  “No sir. I’ve told you all I know.”

  “Thank you. You may be dismissed now.”

  Five minutes later David had pulled Persius aside to tell him of Coffee’s mystifying lack of responsiveness to what surely was important news. David had begun growing angry while talking to the colonel, and now as he recounted the tale, he grew absolutely furious. “What does he think I am, some kind of babbling fool? Is he going to sit there on that fat corposity of a rump of his and let the Injuns run all over us? Hell’s bells, Persius! I’ve got me half a mind to go tell him what I think of him!”

  “You can’t do that. He’s a colonel, and you’re just a little private. When the little man takes on the big one, he gets squashed like a tater bug.”

  “I know it, I know it. Makes me so mad I could burst into flame, though, Persius. Here we risked our lives and come nigh to being run over by a redskin band, and what does he do but sit there picking the dirt out from under his fingernails!”

  “I tell you what I been thinking about,” Persius said. “What’s happened to Gibson and his group?”

  David had no answer. He had wondered the same thing himself.

  “I believe they might have been killed,” Persius said. “Otherwise, I think they’d have come back by now.”

  The failure of Gibson to return seemed to have more impact on the camp’s upper echelon than had David’s news itself, toward which David detected a palpable and sniffish indifference on the part of the superiors. A double guard was posted for the night, but it was made clear that this was more to look out for Gibson than to watch for advancing Indians. Neither Indians nor Gibson arrived in the night, and by morning all were near certain Gibson had died.

  But later in the morning, who should arrive but Gibson himself, with his men. He went straight to the colonel’s quarters and gave a report; when he emerged, the colonel was at his side, barking orders for creation of a quarter-mile-long breastworks, and the sending of an express to General Jackson, who was at Fayetteville, urging haste in his advance to this spot.

  David was glad to see action finally taking place. But he was simultaneously enraged, especially when he learned the details of what Gibson had reported. They were virtually identical to what David himself had communicated the day before—yet not until Gibson of the regular army conveyed the information was it really believed and acted upon by Colonel Coffee.

  It was a lesson in military realities that David would not forget later in life. Regular army stuck together; irregulars were on the outside. To the trained military man, they had no credibility.

  What had been the point of risking his life to scout for the army when the army didn’t even believe his report? The longer he thought about it, he madder he grew.

  General Jackson arrived the next day after a difficult forced march. David Crockett stood leaning on his rifle and watched the lean, angular-featured major general of the Tennessee militia come riding by at the head of a force of weary soldiers with aching, blistered feet.

  “So that’s Jackson!” he said to Persius. “Looks right tired, don’t he? He could have saved himself a forced march if old Coffee had been willing to listen to a simple little volunteer like me.”

  “You might as well let it drop, Davy,” Persius said. “I’ve discovered that you can save yourself a lot of heartache by figuring from the outset that the right thing ain’t going to happen. Very few times will you be disappointed.”

  Jackson’s troops were weary from their march and were ordered to take their rest that night. Watch was stood by the volunteer forces. David was among the sentinels. He stood his post with an odd, queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Now that Jackson’s troops were here, the prospect of battle seemed much more real than before. He realized that he could get killed. Lifting his hand before his face, he tried to picture it pale and still, the hand of a corpse. Try as he would, he couldn’t quite picture it.

  Well, he comforted himself, maybe that’s a good sign. An omen that death isn’t yet hovering around David Crockett. He put the image of his wife and sons firmly into mind, and for the rest of his watch staunchly refused to think of even the possibility that Crockett of Tennessee would ever fall in battle.

  Chapter 34

  Eight hundred strong, a force of the volunteer army advanced through the river country, crossing the Tennessee and proceeding through Huntsville, then on to Muscle Shoals and Melton’s Bluff. Here the river stretched wide and treacherous, running over an uneven and rocky bed.

  “It’ll be a devil of a job to ford here,” George Russell said to David. Both were mounted, paused beside a river that looked endlessly wide. “I hear there’s rocks under there that’ll cut a horse’s hoof like a blade, and cracks that’ll trap them tight.”

  “Well, I don’t aim to get my horse trapped there,” David replied. “I’d look mighty askance on fighting the Creeks with no horse. Foot soldiering don’t suit me.”

  “Me neither,” Russell replied. He sighed loudly. “Well, here we go! I’ll wish you luck if you’ll do the same for me.”

  The volunteer force that made its slow way across the vast river had been sent along this route apart from the rest of the force. Jackson had divided his army, placing David and his fellows under the command of Coffee and sending them roughly along the same route David and his scouts had f
ollowed earlier. But though the terrain was now familiar to David, the movement of this sprawling force was in stark contrast to the quiet reconnoiter he had led before. The great mass of humanity and horses infiltrated the river, rousing much noise and thrashing and cursing. Many times horses and men went down, crashing into the water, sometimes with such force that pinkish stains of blood afterward spread through the current.

  Russell was right about the rocks. All around, horses became lodged, their hooves driving into unseen crevices in the riverbed and fixing themselves so firmly that the beasts could not draw them out again, even with the help of straining men. David felt breathless all the way across, hoping his own mount wouldn’t fall victim, and when at last he splashed out on the far side, he grinned in relief.

  Looking about, he saw that most of those immediately around him had also successfully forded, including George Russell and Persius Tarr, who were several paces behind. But plenty of others hadn’t been so fortunate. Abandoned horses stood helpless in the river, trapped by the hooves and doomed to remain where they were until someone else came along and managed to free them, or until exposure or predators did them in. It was a sad sight, but David knew nothing could be done. This was an advancing army, and they could not pause here long for the sake of a few unfortunate mounts. The unhorsed soldiers would simply have to go ahead on foot, leaving the horses to their fate.

  On the other side of the river the atmosphere was far more charged. The force was bound now toward Black Warrior Town, a village at the headwaters of the Black Warrior River, a long, southwesterly waterway that spilled into the Tombigbee miles away. Here, every soldier knew, was the prospect of a true battle. David felt a cold chill of fear that he didn’t want to admit even to himself, much less reveal to others.

  Persius rode to his side, smiling. David stared at Persius like he had sprouted a third ear or second nose. What was there to smile about, with battle looming?

  “I’m ready to skin me off some redskin topknots,” Persius declared loudly. “I hope to gather me enough to make a winter coat.”

  David had nothing to say to that. He thought it remarkably odd that Persius, who had required a lot of prodding to volunteer for the Creek campaign in the first place, now was so showy in his anticipation of bloodshed. Which Persius Tarr was the real one—the coward or the eager warrior? David had no idea. Only the test of battle would answer that question.

  Shouted orders spurred them forward. The wet and somber band of volunteer troops moved in a dark mass toward the headwaters of the Black Warrior.

  David allowed himself the pretense of disappointment that the town was deserted. Good thing for the Indians that they had fled! he said to himself. We’d have whupped their backsides and made widows of their women, yes sir.

  The town was large and widely spread out. A great field of corn stretched out nearby; even now soldiers were harvesting it feverishly, and raiding the full cribs scattered about the town. This food was needed, because already the army’s supplies were very low, and had no edibles been found, it was doubtful the soldiers would have had a full supper to look forward to. There was a hidden supply of dried meat discovered as well, evidence of the haste in which the Creeks had abandoned their homes. No doubt the river crossing had been observed, and word carried by runners in advance of the approaching army.

  When the raided supplies were in hand, the burning of the town began. David took part with no hesitation, but with little pleasure either. It was an odd thing, but as he put the torch to house after house, his mind kept going back to Cove Creek and the night the mill washed away. Impoverishment was a harsh demon to have brought down on one’s head, whether by the hand of nature or the hands of an army. David had little more affection for Indians than did most others; still, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for those unknown Creek people who were losing their homes to the torch this day.

  He looked up and saw Persius Tarr setting fire to a large house. Persius’s stance was taut and eager; he glanced up and saw David watching him. He smiled widely. “By God, Dave, I wish every house was stacked to the roof with them damn savages!” he yelled gleefully. “I’d roast me a few dozen and eat ’em for supper!” He turned away and entered the empty house, setting the torch to its meager contents. David was vaguely sickened. Persius was a hateful and ugly creature today, and David honestly regretted he had talked him into becoming a soldier. It was unpleasant to see him like this, especially in light of what he had learned from Haynes.

  Leaving the town burning behind them, the soldiers rode and marched away and made camp. There they cooked and ate what foods they had remaining from their own supplies, entirely devouring the seized dried beef and making a big dent in the Indian corn as well. They parched it by their fires, ate part of it, and stored the rest of the dried kernels in pockets and pouches. On such fare a man could subsist for a long time, but that was about all. No one considered it good eating.

  The next day there was no meat at all in the camp, and David, stomach already rumbling in hunger, went to Coffee and asked his permission to hunt as the force advanced. By bringing in a few deer and such, he could keep the men at least partially fed. Coffee agreed, though warning David to be careful.

  Immediately David set off to hunt, and was pleasantly surprised when he discovered a deer already killed and skinned. It was so freshly done that steam from the hideless meat still rose. This was a stroke of luck indeed—assuming the hunter who had killed and skinned this game wasn’t too close by. No doubt that hunter was an Indian, probably frightened away by David’s approach.

  Cautiously looking about and keeping his rifle at ready, David crept up to the carcass and knelt beside it. After satisfying himself that no ambush was about to entrap him, he laid his rifle aside long enough to carry the deer back to his horse and lay it across it. Fetching his rifle, he mounted and rode back to camp.

  Making his way through the camp, he was surrounded by men looking at the fresh meat with nearly lustful expressions. He carved off a piece of meat big enough for a meal for himself, George Russell, Persius Tarr, and his handful of other mess mates, then bit by bit gave the rest of the meat away. His fellows cheered him, pounded his arms and sides gratefully, grinning up at him as he grinned back. It was a good feeling to be admired by one’s peers. Flickering through his mind were the same kinds of thoughts he had pondered while on the earlier scouting venture.

  Maybe, when this fighting is over, I ought to take a good hard look at becoming an elected man. Maybe that’s David Crockett’s calling. Why, if a man can buy himself a grin and handshake with the gift of a bit of beef, couldn’t he just as easy buy himself a vote with the gift of a slug of tobacco or a swallow of whisky? It’s giving a man what he wants when he wants it—there’s the secret.

  A new face appeared, looking up at him. “Howdy,” David said, glancing—then he looked again. He knew this face … somewhere he had met this man. And from the expression now crossing the man’s own features, he knew this fellow was having similar thoughts about him.

  “Mister, I swear I believe I know you from somewhere,” David said.

  “Well, I been thinking the same thing … you reckon you got more of that meat to spare?”

  “Never let a man go hungry; that’s my rule,” David replied, knifing off a big dripping hunk and handing it to the man. “What’s your name, if I might ask?”

  “Moore. Ben Moore. Thank you for the meat. I’m obliged.” Then he turned away and walked hurriedly back to his tent, the location of which David noted. Moore … the name wasn’t familiar. But that face; he knew it, sure as the world, he knew it. But from where?

  By the time David reached his own tent, nothing remained of the venison but a few bones and the single hunk of flesh he had reserved for himself and his mess mates. George Russell handled the roasting, and the cooked meat was unceremoniously divided and eaten, along with some rough hoecakes made from some of the parched corn, ground to a meal between two stones. Each man could have eaten twice w
hat was available, but no one complained; at least they had enjoyed meat with a meal that otherwise, as David himself put it, would have been “bland as an old maid Presbyterian.”

  When the meal was done, David rose and walked back through the camp, heading toward the tent he had seen Moore enter. The mystery of the man’s familiarity was heavy on his mind, and there was nothing to do but put it to rest. Moore was outside the tent, scouring out a cook pan with sand, when David strode up.

  “Mr. Moore, I’m still pondering where I might have seen you before,” he said. Moore was startled; he hadn’t noticed David’s approach. Standing, he dropped the pan and looked back at his visitor with an odd expression. Good Lord, David thought. He looks for all the word like he’s scared of me!

  “Mr. Moore, I’m wondering if maybe you might have spent some time at my father’s inn. He was—”

  David’s words were chopped neatly off by a burst of recognition. For several seconds he stared at Moore, verifying to himself what he had just realized. Then, beginning to grin, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the little pouch he still carried, and from it produced the silver nugget his uncle Jimmy had given him so many years before. He held it before Moore’s eyes.

  “Take a look at that! You recognize it, Mr. Moore? Or should I say Mister—”

  “No!” the man said in a sharp whisper. “Don’t say it!” With his expression withering into one of great dismay, Moore grabbed David’s arm and pulled him aside, away from all potential hearers. He leaned close and spoke in a very soft voice.

  “I figured out who you was right after you give me that meat,” he said. “It’s been so many years that it took me a minute.”

  “Well, Ben Kelso, it has been a right smart spell of years at that.”

  “Don’t call me Kelso, please. I … I got into a bit of trouble some years ago, and I been going by Ben Moore ever since. If I was to be known as Ben Kelso, there’s places here and there where I might face the noose. I’m at your mercy, Mr. Crockett. I hope you ain’t a man to carry hard feelings from years past.” He glanced at the silver piece in David’s hand and winced at the memory it evoked. “I treated you bad, I know, but I was just a boy with a mean spirit of bedevilment about me. You won’t reveal me, will you, David … Mr. Crockett? You won’t hold a grudge on me … will you?”