David Crockett (21 page)

D
AVID
C
ROCKETT GOT OFF
to a good start on his 160 acres of newly opened Choctaw Purchase land at the head of Shoal Creek, in what was soon to become Lawrence County, Tennessee. But he was not the first white man to settle there. For several years prior to the Choctaws’ ceding their land, mostly Scots-Irish squatters from North Carolina had illegally moved into the area.
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By 1815, the first settlement appeared on Big Buffalo River; a gristmill and distillery followed, and then some Primitive Baptists arrived and built a church. The soil was fertile and yielded fine crops of corn, wheat, cotton, and tobacco, with much game to be found in the hardwood forests and along the many spring-fed streams.

During the less than five years he lived in these parts, Crockett launched his public career. This was where he developed his own style of rhetoric and sharpened his oratory skills. It was here that he first entered mainstream politics. And it was in Lawrence County that history began to take notice of him.

Nearing his thirty-first birthday, Crockett and his boys quickly built a cabin along Shoal Creek, the first of three homes the family would have while living in this region. They had sold a large portion of their land back in Franklin County and leased out the rest of what had been the Patton farm. This income, along with Elizabeth’s family money, bought them a little time to adjust to their new surroundings and get to know their neighbors.

Even before the family had completely moved to Lawrence County, Crockett was quickly emerging as a community leader. He had already been named one of five commissioners of the Shoal Creek Corporation, a panel of local men charged with laying out county boundaries.
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Coming up with a name for the proposed county proved to be easy. There was unanimous approval when the commissioners proposed to name it after Captain James Lawrence, the popular naval hero of the War of 1812 who, when mortally wounded, shouted to his crew, “Don’t give up the ship.”
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As far as a name for the county seat, it was simple enough to continue the pattern and call the place Lawrenceburgh, soon changed to Lawrenceburg without the “h.” All that remained was finding a place to build a courthouse. As smoothly as establishing county boundaries and the naming chores had progressed, site selection for the Lawrence County seat of government proved to be fraught with controversy.

Crockett and four other county residents were charged with choosing the site. The other selection commissioners were Maximilian H. Buchanan, a major landowner in the area; Josephus Irvine, who enjoyed fisticuffs and was often fined for fighting; Enoch Tucker, one of Crockett’s close friends and business associates; and Henry Phenix, operator of a “house of public entertainment.”
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At their first meeting, the five members sharply divided into two camps, each with a specific location and his own special interests. On one side were Crockett and Tucker, championing land at a point where Shoal Creek straightened out and flowed south to the Tennessee River. This site was very near the property Crockett and Tucker owned on Shoal Creek. They claimed it was the ideal spot since it was the “exact geographic location of the county,” as recommended by the Tennessee General Assembly.
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Crockett pointed out that such a location would be more easily accessible to all county residents. The other faction demanded that the county seat be built near property they owned on the new Military Road, under construction by some of Andrew Jackson’s soldiers. It would soon become an alternative to the historic Natchez Trace, an important road for several Indian tribes and by the late 1700s a vital link between outposts of civilization for white settlers.
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The two sides locked in heated arguments and neither would budge. Crockett was incensed because Irvine, who had been authorized to build the courthouse, started to erect the building on the site his team had picked before state officials had made a final decision. Accusations, citizen petitions, and a flood of other documents from the two factions bombarded the Tennessee General Assembly in Murfreesboro, where in 1818 the state capital was moved because, unlike Knoxville, Murfreesboro was located in the exact geographic center of Tennessee.
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Ultimately, Crockett lost the battle over location, although the dispute raged on and was not fully resolved until 1823, a year after Crockett had moved from Lawrence County farther west to the Obion River country.
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In fact, Lawrenceburg was built just where Crockett’s opponents had chosen—a 400-acre tract of land that had been granted to John Thompson by the State of North Carolina in 1792 for services rendered as a soldier in the Revolutionary War. Private Thompson never claimed the land, probably because he considered it worthless since it was located in the heart of Chickasaw territory.
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The squabble over where Lawrenceburg should be located made Crockett a few enemies, but it also broadened his appeal and heightened his public image. Soon after he came to the area, Crockett was called upon to help bring some order to an emerging county “without any law at all,” where, according to Crockett, “so many bad characters began to flock in upon us.”
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His neighbors formed a backwoods confederation and asked Crockett to be an unofficial magistrate. He took the appointment quite seriously but kept his sense of humor. “When a man owed a debt, and wouldn’t pay it, I and my constable ordered our warrant, and then he would take the man, and bring him before me for trial,” Crockett later explained. “I would give judgment against him, and then an order of execution would easily scare the debt out of him.” There also were times when Crockett had to be stern and use corporal punishment. “If any one was charged with marking his neighbour’s hogs, or with stealing any thing, which happened pretty often in those days—I would have him taken, and if there was tolerable grounds for the charge, I would have him well whip’d and cleared.”
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Crockett must have done a satisfactory job. The confidence his neighbors placed in him was proven when on November 25, 1817, the state legislature—based on citizens’ recommendations—named Crockett as one of twelve magistrates, or justices of the peace, in the emerging county.
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“This was a hard business for me, for I could just barely write my own name; but to do this, and write the warrants too, was at least a huckleberry over my persimmon,” wrote Crockett, using one of his pet phrases for “a cut above.” In describing his work as a justice of the peace in his autobiography, Crockett once again presented himself as a simple, semiliterate country man without much education but with an ample load of horse sense. “My judgments were never appealed from,” Crockett continued, “and if they had been they would have stuck like wax, as I gave my decisions on the principles of common justice and honesty between man and man, and relied on natural born sense, and not on law, learning to guide me; for I had never read a page in a law book in my life.”
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Crockett’s “natural born sense” proved to be more valuable to his future political career than anything he could have learned in school. His selection as town commissioner and justice of the peace gave him a taste of government as well as the desire to dig deeper into the political stew pot for a bigger spoonful. The governmental posts he held in Lawrence County, combined with his sizable reputation as a war veteran and skilled hunter, ignited a busy career of public service.

Crockett was flattered when Capt. Daniel Matthews, an officer in the local militia, asked for his support in an upcoming election to choose a regimental colonel. Matthews was a prosperous farmer who consistently raised more corn than anyone else in the entire county.
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Crockett had no trouble giving his endorsement. However, he was hesitant when Matthews suggested that Crockett join his ticket and run for the post of regimental major. “I objected to this, telling him that I thought I had done my share of fighting, and that I wanted nothing to do with military appointments.”
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Matthews was as stubborn as Crockett. He spoke of Crockett’s record as a soldier in the Indian Wars and reminded him that his constituents in Franklin County had elected him to the rank of lieutenant before he moved away. At Matthews’s insistence, Crockett—confident that he and Matthews would support each other—gave in and agreed to run.

To launch their joint campaign, Matthews hosted a huge corn-husking frolic on his farm and invited every citizen eligible to vote in the county. The plan was for Matthews and Crockett to come forward at the end of the frolic and make their formal joint announcement for colonel and major in the militia. A swarm of people descended on the Matthews place, including the entire Crockett clan. However, just before the speeches were to be given, one of Crockett’s friends tipped him off that the whole thing was a ruse cooked up by Matthews, whose own son was also going to be a candidate for major. Crockett had been duped and set up as a patsy candidate.
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“I cared nothing about the office,” Crockett later admitted, “but it put my dander up high enough to see, that after he had pressed me so hard to offer, he was countenancing, if not encouraging a secret plan to beat me.” Crockett confronted Captain Matthews, who admitted to the double-cross but offered his apology and said that his son “hated worse to run against me than any man in the county.” That was when Crockett delivered a surprise of his own. “I told him his son need give himself no uneasiness about that; that I shouldn’t run against him for major, but against his daddy for colonel.”
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A stunned Matthews graciously shook Crockett’s hand and then addressed the crowd. He announced his candidacy and added that he would be running against David Crockett.

There was polite applause and then Crockett came forward with his speech. He liked giving the final speech of the day and would employ this tactic of getting in the last word in all of his future runs for elected political office. He kept his remarks brief and with a smile and a few winks explained his reasons for taking on Captain Matthews, “remarking that as I had the whole family to run against any way, I was determined to levy on the head of the mess.” The people gathered around him burst into cheers. Crockett’s self-effacing and humorous speech became the template for every one of his future political campaigns.

Crockett always went directly to the people, an action that would characterize his entire political career. He stumped every nook and cranny of the county, as if he were hunting only for votes. At each stop, he delivered his humorous speeches, shook hands, and swigged a little whiskey. It all paid off, for when the final votes were tallied, Crockett was declared the winner by a hefty margin and took great delight in the fact that, not only did he beat the father, but the son also lost badly to another candidate running for major.

On March 27, 1818, David Crockett was commissioned lieutenant colonel commandant of the Fifty-seventh Regiment of Militia.
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The rank he earned was not a gratuitous tile of “Colonel” that came to be handed out to so-called southern gentlemen of means. Crockett was not a plantation colonel but a high-ranking militia officer duly elected by the citizens to head up a regiment. Yet he also was a new breed of frontier populist who had challenged the plantation hierarchy and prevailed. The title of colonel stuck and remained with him for the rest of his years. Colonel David Crockett of Tennessee—it had a definite ring.

Crockett wasted no time in making his mark in Lawrence County. In rapid succession he was appointed justice of the peace and town commissioner, and then was elected lieutenant colonel of the local militia. The family was healthy and for the most part David’s flare-ups of malaria stayed in check. As a new year approached, a special gift arrived in the Crockett’s newest home built on the Military Road, just south of the public square. On Christmas Day 1818, Elizabeth gave birth to daughter Rebecca Elvira—bringing to seven the number of Crockett’s blood children and Patton stepchildren.
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D
URING HIS BRIEF TENURE
as both magistrate and commissioner in Lawrence County, David Crockett was exposed to the rudiments of law and learned all he could right on the job. He oversaw property disputes, took depositions, issued warrants and licenses, paid out bounties for wolf scalps, supervised county road improvements, and assisted with the census. On one occasion Crockett was made custodian of funds to be collected from a county resident “for the support of a bastard child.”
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As the commander of the local militia, Crockett’s main duty was to make sure the small units scattered around the county held periodic musters and that the entire regiment gather at least once a year. This regimental muster was “the grand event of the year and brought together more of all sorts of people than any meeting or ‘gathering’ that occurred.”
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Militiamen were not issued uniforms but wore their best hunting shirts and marched with their own flintlock rifles. The highlight of the big musters were the shooting matches that featured best shots from rival units in fierce competition for, if nothing else, bragging rights until the next muster. When the smoke cleared and the boasting commenced, plenty of food, drink, and fiddles appeared and a long frolic followed, lasting through the night and into the next morning. If commissioned officers took part in the shooting matches, most likely one of those taking aim was Colonel Crockett.

The assortment of civic duties and community obligations thrust upon Crockett broadened his general knowledge and gave him a sense of fulfillment but brought him little income. These activities also took a great deal of time away from the farming he found so tedious and the hunting treks he so adored. The added pressures of a concerned wife and inadequate finances led to Crockett’s resignation as justice of the peace on November 1, 1819. A short time later he resigned his commission as lieutenant colonel in the militia and was replaced by his former first major, Josephus Irvine, from the faction opposing Crockett in the Lawrenceburg site selection.
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Since moving to the area, Crockett had acquired several hundred acres of land. He also co-owned a large tract of property with his fellow town commissioner and ally, Enoch Tucker, that eventually became an iron mining operation after the Crockett family moved away.
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But it was on another parcel of land, on the middle fork of Shoal Creek at Lawrenceburg, that Crockett launched his latest strategy for making money. On that site in late 1819, Crockett established a substantial complex that included a gristmill, a gunpowder factory, and a whiskey distillery. Crockett reported in his autobiography that he paid $3,000 for construction, “more than I was worth in the world.”
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Without hesitation, Elizabeth put money into the venture in an effort to force her wandering husband to settle down in one place. For a while her strategy worked. David stayed put, devoting long hours to his diversified business interests on the creekbanks near the family home.

Yet even with Elizabeth’s financial contribution, the Crocketts fell short and had to borrow money just to complete the buildings and give them a cushion until everything was operational and producing an income. Crockett’s solid reputation for honesty and fairness helped procure the badly needed loans, but soon he was falling far behind on other loans taken out earlier to buy land, including a 60-acre plot and a sizable 320-acre parcel. In late October 1820, he sent an urgent letter to John Christmas McLemore, one of his creditors, in which he explained that he had been “detained longer than expected my powder factory have not been pushed as it ought and I will not be able to meet my contract with you…. I will pay you interest for the money until paid. I do not wish to disappoint you—I don’t expect I can pay you the hole [
sic
] amount until next spring.”
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McLemore was a major land speculator with sharp business acumen who invested heavily in West Tennessee’s development and was one of the founders of the city of Memphis. Through his marriage to Rachel Jackson’s niece, McLemore had the ear of Andrew Jackson and other power brokers in the state.
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Lending money to a man of Crockett’s position at that time was not one of McLemore’s major deals. Besides, he liked speculating in risky ventures, and in this instance he knew that Crockett was good for the loan, which apparently was the case. Crockett sold a bit of land, paid off some outstanding debts, and by New Year’s Day 1821 reached another milestone.
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He resigned as town commissioner on that date and over the next month pondered a run for higher political office.

Crockett’s decision to run for political office marked a dramatic new period in his life. In February 1821, he announced his candidacy for state representative for Lawrence and Hickman counties in the Tennessee State Legislature. “I just now began to take a rise,”
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Crockett later mused about his decision.

Some of Crockett’s associates—mostly neighbors, hunting companions, and local merchants—were taken aback by the announcement. Running for state elective office seemed to be in direct conflict with the kind of man they knew Crockett to be. He loved being in the outdoors and alone in the wilderness, and yet he was seeking the votes of citizens to send him to the state capital in Murfreesboro, the place that stood for everything he wished to escape. On the other hand, many other friends thought his chances of victory were excellent. Like Crockett, they also knew he could use the income from being in office, and they urged him to offer his name as a candidate. These supporters had to have been as surprised as Elizabeth and the children when, shortly after making his public announcement, Crockett inexplicably left, not just the area he wanted to represent but also the entire state of Tennessee. In March 1821, he assembled a herd of horses and drove them across the state to Buncombe County, North Carolina, where his wife’s parents and other Patton kinfolk lived.
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This was the same journey during which Crockett passed through his old home country near Finley’s Gap and stopped at the John Jacobs place to give Mrs. Jacobs the dollar he owed her deceased husband.

Perhaps Crockett figured the money he made from the sale of the horses would help finance his campaign. The only problem was that he was gone more than three months and did not return to his home until early June, leaving little time to make the rounds of the two county legislative districts before the election, set for August. Crockett was barely back from his North Carolina romp when he kissed Elizabeth—due to deliver yet another baby in less than two months—and rode off on the campaign trail. Fortunately, the older Crockett children and neighbors pitched in to help Elizabeth while her husband searched for votes.

The political campaign evoked in Crockett a folksiness and frontier flair that displayed his expansive personality in full force. One of the first events he attended was a big squirrel hunt down on the Duck River in Hickman County. He soon found that politicking in the canebrakes mostly was a good excuse for a no-holds-barred party. “They were to hunt two days; then to meet and count the scalps, and have a big barbecue, and what might be called a tip-top country frolic,” explained Crockett. “The dinner, and a general treat, was all to be paid for by the party having taken the fewest [squirrel] scalps. I joined one side, taking the place of one of the hunters, and got a gun ready for the hunt. I killed a great many squirrels, and when we counted scalps, my party was victorious.”
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Before the dancing got under way, the various political candidates were called on to make a speech. Instead of using his talent as a storyteller, Crockett became self-conscious, figuring he had to make some sort of formal address. He approached the event organizers and tried to get out of speaking, since, as he put it, making a speech as a candidate “was a business I was as ignorant of as an outlandish negro,” his language reflecting a racist sentiment typical of the day.
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Crockett’s opponent was confident and not at all concerned about running against someone he considered to be “an ignorant back-woods bear hunter.” Seeing he had no choice, Crockett tried to speak to the crowd but “choaked [
sic
] up as bad as if my mouth had been jam’d and cram’d chock full of dry mush.” Then, as the crowd stood staring at the befuddled Crockett, he had a brainstorm—tell one of the humorous stories he knew so well.

The instantaneous decision would change the course of regional Tennessee political history of the early nineteenth century.

Crockett’s confidence as a stump speaker increased at every event he attended. Whenever he was in doubt, he just “relied on natural born sense,” an endless repertoire of anecdotes and jokes, and those “treats of liquor” for the potential voters with a thirst. The people who came to the barbecues, shooting matches, frolics, and rallies did not seem to care if Crockett avoided speaking about political issues but instead told them outrageously funny yarns that most of the time featured himself as the brunt of the joke. Crockett never put on airs. He was trying to represent the common men and women, just like himself, and not the landed gentry, creating an ethic for this western portion of Tennessee that challenged the hierarchical structure of the plantation culture. Crockett’s constituents had heavily calloused hands, sunburnt necks, and contrary dispositions if anybody—including the government—pushed them too hard.

During the busy campaign, on the second day of August, Elizabeth gave birth to her last child—a baby girl whom she and David named Matilda.
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That brought the number of children living under the cabin roof to eight. Two weeks after Matilda’s birth, her father turned thirty-five, the halfway mark to the biblical “threescore years and ten.” Later that month, a stream of voters rode or walked to the polls from first light until it got dark. When all the ballots were counted, Crockett was declared the winner. He had beaten his opponent by a two-to-one margin, or, as he more precisely put it: “I was elected, doubling my competitor, and nine votes over.”
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Not long after the election, Crockett visited with James Knox Polk, future president of the United States, at a political gathering in the town of Pulaski. Polk, just twenty-six, was an ardent admirer and lifelong supporter of Andrew Jackson, and served as the clerk of the State senate during Crockett’s first term in the legislature. Polk offered Crockett his congratulations—he was already well acquainted with him from appearances as a lawyer in Lawrence County—and then conjectured, “Well, colonel, I suppose we shall have a radical change of the judiciary at the next session of the Legislature.”
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According to Crockett, this rhetorical question from Polk caught him totally off guard. “Very likely, sir,” replied Crockett, who then quickly took his leave. “For I was afraid some one would ask me what the judiciary was; and if I knowed I wish I may be shot. I don’t indeed believe I had ever before heard that there was any such thing in all nature; but still I was not willing that the people there should know how ignorant I was about it.” It seems likely that this was yet another instance when Crockett exaggerated his supposed ignorance, the ploy that so pleased his supporters, who, of course, he hoped would read his autobiography.

Crockett was present and accounted for at the state capital in Murfressborough (as Murfreesboro was spelled at that time) when the first session of the Fourteenth General Assembly convened, on September 17, 1821.
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His first term as a state lawmaker—representing Hickman and Lawrence Counties—was relatively quiet. Crockett was appointed to only one committee, the rather inconsequential Standing Committee of Propositions and Grievances.

The opening days of the session were uneventful except for an incident on the floor of the chamber that proved to be a valuable lesson for Crockett and the other legislators. During debate, a nervous Crockett, still trying to get his bearings and unfamiliar with legislative procedure and protocol, rose with some nervousness to speak on behalf of a measure under consideration. When he finished and took his seat, James C. Mitchell, a leading criminal lawyer of the day and the representative for three Tennessee counties, rose to speak in opposition. In the course of rebutting Crockett’s remarks, Mitchell referred to Crockett as “the gentleman from the cane,” a term that many believed denoted a common person from the backwoods.
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Some of the other members chuckled at Mitchell’s remark. Crockett took immediate offense. He leapt to his feet and demanded an apology. None was forthcoming, and, later, during the recess outside the chambers, Crockett accosted Mitchell and restated his demands and promised a good country whipping for Mitchell if he refused. The impeccable Mitchell, dressed in the fine suit of clothes worn by gentlemen of distinction, tried to reason with Crockett and assured him that he meant no insult but had used the expression merely to describe the canebrake country where Crockett resided. The explanation did not satisfy Crockett or soothe his wounded pride.
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