H'ard Starts: The Early Waldrop, page 30
Crockett thought a moment, then clucked his teeth. “Be-damn me if I know what to tell you, Sam. What are your plans?”
“Get up money and men, try one more time, I suppose. I’m on this like you were on the Land Bill.”
“I feel for you then,” said Crockett. “Ain’t good for any man to be so intolerable for something.”
“Well, you learned your lesson,” said Houston, picking some mud off his boots. It was a rainy June day in the District of Columbia, and the congressional office building was a-track with water.
“True enough, General,” said Davy, fidgeting in his chair. He had taken the demise of the Land Bill with good graces, after fighting four years for it. The speculators would get at Western Tennessee now, rather than the squatters who had improved it. But David Crockett, the “gentleman from the cane,” had learned a few lessons in his years in Washington.
“You say Jim Bowie made it out with you? He in Washington?”
“Yes. He’s recovering from some wounds and the fever.”
“I sure would like to meet that feller,” said Davy. “Seems me and him got a mite to talk about.”
“That you do, that you do,” said Houston, standing. “That’s why I invited you to the dinner party tomorrow night.”
“Well, I’m mighty obliged, and I’ll sure be there. You wouldn’t be trying to raise money and volunteers so soon, would you, General?”
“Why else?”
“Certainly,” said Crockett.
“Tell me, Colonel,” asked Houston as he was about to leave, “was it true at one time you were going to come and get in on this fight? We could have used men like you.”
“Sure, General, but you know, way I figure it, I’da probably got my head blowed off in one of them little ruckuses I heard about.”
“That’s for sure,” said Houston, “lots of men did. You’re probably right.”
He went off down the hall, whistling.
Davy Crockett felt real bad.
“ … so the man said ‘It’s like I got a bear by the tail, Davy. I can’t afford to let go, and I can’t rightly hang on either!’ ”
The men in the room laughed, puffed their cigars. Their eyes shone with the good food, talk and wine.
Jim Bowie was not as tall as Davy had imagined, and he was not wearing the fabled knife, either. His face was still drawn and a little sallow from his illness, but he held his own in the company. He was much more at home in this society than was Davy. He had lived for ten years, on and off, in Frenchified New Orleans, thought Crockett, and he’s just like a fox returned to his favorite henhouse.
“Well, Davy,” said Jim, sitting himself more comfortably on the couch, “what do you say about throwing all this politeness over and coming back to Texas with the General and me?”
“Don’t rightly know,” said the congressman. “Heck if there ain’t some talk amongst the Knickerbockers about putting me up for some high office. As a sop to the westerners, you understand? And so I’ll lay off’n their man van Buren. I gave him a peck of trouble this last session.”
“That’s what I heard, too,” said Bowie. He was dressed elegantly, even for Washington society; tight pants, calf-high boots, tailed coat, pink ruffled shirt, diamond stickpin in his cravat. Crockett looked at Bowie while he took a sip of his brandy. He saw for the first time beneath that civilized exterior the half-wild man of the bayous who had figured so importantly in the Sandbar Duel, who had fashioned the perfect knife because he knew what a knife was needed for.
“Why would they run a man like you, Colonel?” asked Sam Houston, finished with his talk with the Treasurer.
“Well, hell, Sam,” said Crockett. “You know what happened to Tennessee after you left the governor’s house to go live with them damn Cherokees. I guess van Buren and his boys don’t rightly know what to do with me and figure it’s a mite better to have me where they can keep a sorta weather eye on me.”
“But you don’t like the vice president very much, do you, Davy?” asked Bowie, enjoying himself immensely.
“Well, the way I figure it,” said Davy, “I can do more for the people gumming up the Knickerbocker works than sitting back in Tennessee railin’ at ’em.”
“Colonel, you’re a born politician,” said Houston.
“I ain’t a born nothin’ but a bear hunter, General. And bears is gettin’ mighty scarce in my neck of the woods. Thinkin’ about taking up a new sport.” Crockett waited.
“What’s that, Davy?” asked Bowie, knowing he set himself up.
“Well, sir,” said Davy. “Y’all all know about Halley’s Comet up there?” The comet had been the biggest news of the last year, besides the Moon hoax. They all nodded. “Well, way I figure it, a comet ain’t nothin’ but another kind of critter, scurrying around heaven, making people nervous like a panther. Well, next time one comes around, I’m gonna climb up to the top of the Alleghenies, reach up like I’m grabbing a catfish, and jerk a knot in its tail!”
They laughed. Some shook their heads.
“Way I figure it, Mr. Barnum will be glad to get one for his Congress of Oddities up there. He’d probably pay me right smart, too. Better than grubbin’ stumps in west Tennessee, that’s for sure.”
All the guests had left except Crockett. He, Bowie, and Houston sat in overstuffed chairs, their shoes off, feet propped up on a small table.
“Damned if I ain’t got the sorest bunion I’ve ever had,” said Bowie. “Them Mexican boots are pretty, but they’re tearing my feet up. Let’s get us a couple good pair each before we go back, Sam.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” said the General. “Maybe the colonel knows where we can get some?”
“Plenty o’ places, General. Memphis is about the best. Jim, you ought to try moccasins for a while.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him for six months,” said Houston. “He wears ’em a week, he’ll forget there’s any other kind of footgear.”
“Do like the General’s friends, the Cherokee,” said Davy. “Wear ’em all year. In the winter, just wrap some hides around them, put on some leggings. I know good men who swear by ’em.”
“David,” said Houston, changing the subject. “Why don’t you throw this over and come on out with us? It’ll be a tough fight, but it’ll be worth it. You could wear all the moccasins you wanted, never have to dress up again.”
“You were in politics once, General. You know how it is.”
“But I saw I wasn’t getting anywhere, David. Governor is about as far as I wanted to go. And it wasn’t such a plum job. Texas is the place, David. There’s land there that won’t be touched for a hundred years, it’s so big.”
“Hell, I know that! You know I been supporting you all along. First thing I want when the old Knickerbocker gets elected is for us to go get Texas, bring it into the Union. But he won’t do it; he ain’t got the backbone. And that means y’all are gonna have a tough tussle aforehand.”
“You’ve never been afraid of a tussle before, Crockett,” said Bowie.
“Naw. And if it weren’t for that damned Jackson crew, I wouldn’t think a minute before joining up with you. But the Union’s got a fight coming up. Nothing’s gonna stop Old Hickory from naming van Buren his successor. We can’t let ’em get all the power. Somebody’s gotta look after your Indians, Sam.”
“If we had Texas, they’d have all the land they’d ever need.”
“If van Buren’s men ever got aholt of Texas, they’d get it away from you and the Indians both, General. I ain’t blind.”
Houston looked at him quizzically.
“My fight’s here,” said Crockett. “Once I whup the Knickerbockers and the tariff people into shape, then maybe I can get around to seeing what I can do about Texas. I’d be proud to see you governor of a new state like that, General.”
“If you’ve made up your mind, then,” said Houston. “It’s good to have you on our side. I know you’ll do what you can for us in Congress.” He added sincerely, “And if you change your mind, just saddle up and head out west and ask anybody where we are.”
“Sure will, General,” said Crockett, rising and putting on his boots.
“Where you going? Night’s just started!” said Bowie.
“The Treasurer gets up mighty early,” said Crockett. He winked at Houston. “Your general here is gonna hit some of his friends up for some of that Democrat money tomorrow.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Bowie.
He walked Crockett to the door, his shoes still off.
“Well, you take care of yourself, Jim,” said the congressman. “Get rested up real good. I had the fevers once, and they make a man so he ain’t worth a suck-egg mule. And get yourself some moccasins.”
“You take care, too, Davy. Maybe me and you can get together sometime and hunt those hills you like so much.”
“I’d like nothing better, Jim,” said Crockett. “You let me know how y’all do, will you?”
“Sure will.”
Eleven months later, Jim Bowie was killed in a skirmish along the Brazos River. Davy Crockett was the Secretary of War of the United States of America.
New Year’s Eve of 1838, there was a raucous party in the White House, though van Buren disapproved. Crockett knew Yankees were stuck up and didn’t like people having any kind of fun. The valets had already requested him to quieten several times.
“Aw, come on, Lucius,” said one of Crockett’s friends to the usher. “Have a little snort.”
“I better not, Mr. Parfrey. I have to attend to the other guests.”
“Aw, van Buren never did like us anyway,” said the friend as the valet circled through the room.
They leaned against the mantel. It still bore the scars of Jackson’s inauguration ten years before, when Old Hickory’s friends had thrown knives at it. For a fleeting instant, Crockett was reminded of Bowie.
“Damn, he was a fine man,” said Davy.
“What?” asked Parfrey, who was having trouble standing.
“Nothing, Parfrey. I was just thinkin’ that if General Houston don’t hurry up and do something down there, he’s gonna make a lifelong career out of tryin’ to beat the Mesicans. Hell, he’s been at in three years now, and ain’t a whit closer than when he started.”
“No damn good.” Said Parfrey.
“What?”
“This party’s no damn good. Nothing’s going on,” said Parfrey.
“Well, let’s liven ’er up!” said Crockett.
Parfrey gave a hog call, and they were the center of attention instantly.
“Friends!” said Crockett. “I’m gonna make good a boast I made four years ago. Follow me!”
He strode towards the door. Van Buren shook his head sadly, but followed anyway, along with the other guests.
“Lucius!” yelled Crocket. “Go to my rig and fetch me my rifle-iron!”
“Yes sir, Mr. Crockett.”
The Moon shone brightly on the banks of the Potomac. There must have been two hundred people watching, talking among themselves, laughing.
Crockett, dressed in his best clothes, strode through them as if they were a thicket. He carried his rifle, powder horn, and coonskin cap.
“Gentle people of Washington,” said Davy. “A time ago, I was given this here rifle, the straightest shootin’ iron in the world, and I named her ‘Ole Betsy.’ She was given to me by the City of Philadelphia.”
There were a few ragged cheers from that city’s visitors.
Crockett was weaving on his feet a little bit.
“I told them people that one day I was really goin’ to try ’er out. Well, I been sorta busy meantimes, and I’ll do it now.”
He loaded his gold inlaid rifle quickly and expertly, capped his powder horn. Then he put on his coonskin hat, gave it a little pet to straighten it.
“Don’t feel right without my hat,” he said.
He turned again to the assembled guests.
“Mr. President. Members of the Congress. Distinguished visitors. Yonder stands the silver Moon. It looks mighty close, but somebody was telling me it was further than ten times around the world. Well, for other rifles, that would be a mite of a reach. But not for Ole Betsy. She was forged in the city where Dr. Franklin fought with the lightning and dared the thunder. To her, that Moon ain’t nothin’ but a big silver dollar. And she’s plugged a many of them in her time. Tonight, I’m gonna make good my boast and knock a chunk off the Moon.”
He turned, strode down to the banks of the river, hefted his firearm, and pulled the trigger. A roar echoed up and down the length of the Potomac.
“Did you see me make the Man in the Moon duck?” he asked the roaring, applauding crowd. “Damn me, if this ain’t a fine gun!”
Crockett tore open the dispatch which came on an April morning in 1840.
“Hot damn, Parfrey!” he yelled. “Them Mesicans has done it now! They chased General Houston all the way over into Louisiana and burned down Natchitoches and blew up our fort! It’s gonna be war, Parfrey! I gotta go tell Tyler about this! Get saddled up and burn leather for Connecticut. I want Samuel Colt here by tomorrow evening. We’re gonna need his guns.”
Seven months later, in Coahuila, the Army of the Republic of Mexico was pulling back in a rout from breastworks around a small garrison town.
General Sam Houston, now in charge of Texican Volunteers, was urging his men on after them. Five years of frustration were behind his temper, and his horse was plunging in and out among the Texican lines. A Mexican cannonball whizzed by.
“Goddam, General, they never could shoot straight!” said a voice behind him.
Sam Houston looked around, and there was Secretary of War Crockett, dressed in buckskins, a brace of new Colt pistols in his belt, a Colt rifle across his arms, with Ole Betsy stuck in his carbine boot.
“Crockett, goddammit, what are you doing here?”
“Cain’t let you have all the fun, can I, General?”
“Hell no! Where were you when I needed you?”
Crockett pointed at the line of blue-coated infantrymen chasing after the Mexican army. Artillery began to hit among the fleeing defenders.
“I figured why look for volunteers when the Union already had an Army standing around,” said Crockett.
Houston laughed, and held his sides.
“Goddam, Crockett, I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Save the talk for a cool spell, Sam,” he said. “Right now, we got Mexicans to whup.”
“Boys!” yelled Houston. “This here’s Davy Crockett!”
Hats flew up the length of the line, and some of them were whipped away by snipers’ bullets.
A shell exploded close by.
“Damn, boys!” said Crockett, wheeling his horse. “Let’s go give ’em one for Jim Bowie!”
The men jumped and cheered and went over the abandoned breastworks.
“And one for … for … ”
Houston whispered to him quickly.
“… for Old Deaf Smith! Travis! Fannin!”
They began running and firing, and Crockett and Houston rode to the fore. Crockett had both pistols out and was firing into the defenders who tried to make a stand at a broken wall.
The Union army was closing in to the flanks. The Texicans were yelling and screaming. Many of them had already drawn their knives fifty yards from the Mexicans.
The fire from the barricade melted, dwindled. The soldiers ran, some throwing their rifles, some trying to turn and fight.
“Hot damn!” yelled Crockett. “We got ’em goin’, General. We got ’em going now.”
“Let’s run ’em all the way to Mexico City, boys!” yelled Houston.
And they did.
Davy Crockett had been the only member of van Buren’s cabinet carried over into Harrison’s cabinet. Which quickly became Tyler’s cabinet on Harrison’s death.
On March 20, 1845, David Crockett was sworn in as the 11th President of the United States.
He was a relatively distinguished chief executive, a little slow on foreign relations but very good on domestic issues. He had the whole Union to look after — the states, the territories of Texas and the Northern Mexicos, Indian Territory, and the Indian Sanction. He also wanted to make sure that the States bought the Russian Protections, those lands north of California all the way to the Arctic Circle. He met with the Czar’s representatives in 1848, and the deed was done.
He was a good president and became an even better storyteller. He loved the Union, he watched it grow, he nurtured it as best he could, and he looked out for the little man, the homesteaders, the soldier. He caught pneumonia in the winter of 1849 and his health grew steadily worse.
“Boys,” he said to the men gathered around his bedside, though most were older than he. “Remember the night I put a hole through the Moon?”
“Certainly, Mr. President,” said Melville.
“Well, don’t y’all forget it, you hear? This Union will run out of territory sometime, and people will want to start grabbing off more land from the Indians. Don’t let ’em. Look new places. Why, hell, I figure the Moon is as good a place as any to start! When they get there, tell ’em to look for my bullet, will you, boys?”
“Sure, Mr. President,” said Dan Webster. He looked at the others.
“Boys, I’m fixin’ to go rassle the biggest bear I reckon anybody ever seen.”
“We’ll be here, Davy,” said Parfrey.
“I know you will, boys. Give Pierce all the help you can, will you? He ain’t a bad sort.”
He died three days later, and Daniel Webster gave the eulogy. They say the stars and stripes appeared in the sky when he spoke.
The War for the Union, when it finally came, was long and bloody, and lasted nine years. It took another ten to recover. Then the nation pulled itself together, shook off its fatigue, and plunged ahead.
The Canada War lasted three years, and Queen Victoria barely kept the rest of the Empire out of it.
The Big War, the one everybody got in on, nearly sapped the strength of the generation which had grown to maturity at the turn of the century.
It was fought Rough and Tumble, No Holds Barred.
