Davy is welcomed home—A school-house in the mountains—He makes an enemy—Wildcat style of fighting—Davy takes to the woods—John Crockett cuts a stout hickory switch—Davy is off for Virginia again—He goes to Baltimore—The clippers and the privateer—Prevented from sailing for London—He leaves his self-appointed guardian and starts for home—He crosses New River through slush ice—The trail in spring—A strange boy at the family table—“It’s Davy come home!”

Davy reached his father’s inn the same night, and his welcome may be imagined. It was late in the fall, and he lived at home until the red flames of the sumac and the poison oak were again fiery spots and streaks upon the hills. Then John Crockett took it into his head to send the boy to a school near-by. A rude log cabin, with benches hewn from logs and a floor of earth, offered its single room to those who came. A great slab of wood, three feet wide, and standing on hickory stakes, reached across the room, and was used as a table for the scholars. “Readin’, spellin’ an’ cipherin’” were the principal studies. Writing, of course, was taught, but the quill pens and poor ink they had to use were as hard to get as was paper, and the blackboard seldom made a penman of an awkward lad.

On the fourth day Davy spent in school he had an altercation with a boy larger and older than he. When the children were dismissed, Davy hid in the bushes and waited for his enemy. As the boy was passing the ambush, Davy “set on him like a wildcat, scratched his face to a flitter-jig, and made him cry for quarter in good earnest.”

Young Crockett was now in a bad fix, for he knew there was a flogging in store for him. The next day, and for several days, he left home in the morning, ostensibly for school, but spent the time in the woods, until the children went home. His brothers attended the same school, but he had persuaded them to say nothing of his “playing hooky.” When the schoolmaster wrote to John Crockett, telling him of Davy’s absence, the whole story came out.

“I was in an awful hobble,” Davy wrote of this, “for my father was in a condition to make the fur fly. He called on me to tell why I had not been to school. I told him that I was afraid to go, for I knew I should be cooked up to a cracklin’ in no time. My father told me, in a very angry manner, that he would whip me an eternal sight worse if I didn’t start at once to school.”

While Davy was begging not to be sent back, the elder Crockett was cutting a stout hickory switch, and from past experience the boy knew what this meant. At his father’s first move towards him, he broke into a run. The chase lasted a mile, when the boy dodged aside into the bushes, and his father then gave up the hunt. Davy had been careful to lead off in a course away from the school-house, having a keen idea of his fate if both the teacher and his father should get him at the same time.

Fearing to return, Davy kept on for several miles and put up for the night at the house of a man who was about to start for Virginia with a drove of cattle. The boy at once hired out to go with him, and before starting one of the older Crockett boys joined them. Thus was Davy again a pilgrim, with a journey of nearly four hundred miles before him. The trail they followed was probably about the same as the route of the Norfolk & Western Railroad of the present time, through Abingdon, Wytheville, and Blue Ridge Springs, to Lynchburg, passing south of Hanging Rock, to which place Davy had travelled the previous year. From Lynchburg the drove went on to Charlottesville and Orange Court House, up the headwaters of the Rapidan, again through the Blue Ridge Mountains, to Front Royal, on the Shenandoah River, where the stock was sold.

Davy and a brother of the man with whom he had started out, with a single horse for the two, now took the homeward trail. They were together three days, travelling with so little rest that the boy finally told the man to go ahead, and that he would come when he got ready. He bought some provisions with four dollars that the man had given him for the four hundred miles’ journey, and plodded stolidly along until he met a wagoner who lived in Tennessee, and who intended to return after his trip was finished. He was bound for Winchester, not very far away, and as he was a jolly sort of fellow, Davy gladly accepted his offer to take him along. Two days later they met Davy’s brother and the rest of the former party, but Davy refused to go with them. He says that he could not help shedding tears, as he watched his brother disappear, but the thought of the schoolmaster, and of his angry father with the big hickory switch, was too potent.

At Gerardstown, Virginia, Davy worked for twenty-five cents a day for a man named John Gray. Adam Myers, the wagoner, was engaged all winter in hauling loads to and from Baltimore. When spring came, Davy had money to buy decent clothes, and something like seven dollars besides. He took it into his head that he would go with Myers to Baltimore, to see what kind of place it was, and how people lived there. This came near being Davy’s last trip, for on reaching Ellicott’s Mills he had perched himself on top of the barrels of flour that made the load, when the horses ran away at the sight of a road gang with wheelbarrows. The frightened animals turned short about, snapped the pole and then both axle-trees, and nearly buried the boy in the falling barrels. Escaping with nothing more serious than bruises, the two went on with a hired wagon, and soon arrived in Baltimore.

At this place Davy Crockett nearly became a sailor. The harbor was full of shipping, gay with flags and the glories of fresh paint, loading and discharging the riches of all nations. There were never such ships as the Baltimore clippers. Their memory lives in the hearts of every true sailor—

The names of the vessels in the good old clipper times were those that set a boy’s heart to thumping, and the sight of a great full-rigged ship sweeping out to sea was enough to make sailors of farmers’ sons. It was the spring of 1800, and in the port there was a vessel flying the English flag, and then called the Polly. As much of Davy’s time as possible was spent on the wharves, and finally he took courage and went on board a vessel about to clear for London. She was a Yankee ship, for in those days every vessel that flew the Stars and Stripes, from Eastport to Savannah, was a Yankee. Seeing the boy gazing about the decks and aloft, one of her men began talking with him. The Polly being at a wharf near-by, it was not long before Davy heard the history of the old privateer, which had sailed from Baltimore in 1778, and before her return in November had fought with and captured three British armed merchantmen: the Reindeer, four hundred tons and fourteen guns, with a cargo worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars; the Uhla, of same tonnage and ten guns, and a hundred thousand dollar cargo; and the Jane, of the tonnage and armament of the Reindeer, and with a cargo also worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. One-third of all this treasure was the share of the Government. Before the Polly was unlawfully seized in a neutral port and handed over to the English, she had captured nearly thirty prizes, in many cases fighting desperate battles for the mastery.

The master of the ship either took a fancy to Davy or thought that he might prove useful, for before the boy’s second day in Baltimore had passed, he had arranged to go to London as cabin-boy. But when he returned for what spare clothes he had on shore, and told Myers of his intent, the latter refused to give him either his money or clothing, and swore that he should not go. He kept watch over him, prevented his going to the ship, and started back with him as soon as ready, giving him no chance to escape. As he had become very harsh with Davy, threatening him with his whip, the boy left him one morning before daylight. Davy had not a cent in his pockets, but he resolved to go ahead and trust to Providence. This trait was the prominent feature of David Crockett’s nature: he made up his mind, and went ahead; it was hard to turn him, and he went at everything “hammer and tongs.”

As the historian contemplates the spectacle of this penniless thirteen-year-old youngster bravely facing towards his home, four or five hundred miles away, it is but natural to wonder what would have become of him if he had sailed for London. He might have become a famous sailor, a reckless privateer, or a merchant with ships in every sea. Up to this time Davy had had no schooling, except the four days at the place to which he had been afraid to return. Many a boy of the present time is graduated from a high school at fourteen, but Davy Crockett did not know a single letter of the alphabet. As it was, however, the Fates had no idea of sending him to sea, and while the great ship was beating her way along the Atlantic coast, he was resolutely facing west.

It was more than a year and a half before Davy was destined to see his home again. Working for two or three employers, after reaching Montgomery Court House, he saved up a little money and finally made another start for Tennessee. For eighteen months he had worked for a hatter who failed before paying his wages, and it was a poor and half-clothed stripling that was now returning, with a better record, but in no better luck, than the Prodigal Son. At the crossing of the New River, only forty miles on the old trail he was now retracing, he found high water and stormy weather. No one would row him across, and in his impatience he disregarded all warnings, hired a canoe, and put out into the stream. He finally reached the other side, the boat half full of water, and his clothing soaking wet and freezing upon his back. After going up the river for three miles, he found a warm shelter and food.

As Davy finally went down the old road into the Tennessee valleys, the woods were full of wakening life. The tender green of the beech and maple shimmered on every slope. Beside his path the arbutus showed its pink-white petals, and the azaleas and June-berries, full of bloom, were eagerly sought by droning bees. The spring wind sang in every pine, and the breath of the hemlock and the balsam was like a rare perfume to the homesick boy.

In Sullivan County he encountered the brother who had in vain begged him to return home. Perhaps Davy still dreaded the sight of the old school-house, for it was some weeks before he left this brother’s cabin and sought his father’s. He had travelled all day, and as he drew near to the wayside inn he saw the teamsters caring for their horses and covering the wagons for the night. He noticed that the poles of some of the wagons pointed eastward, while the others showed that the loads were on the westward journey. The latter were the ones that looked good to Davy, who had had enough of wandering in the East.

His heart seemed in his throat as he saw his sisters and brothers going in and out, and he feared at any moment to see his father with the seasoned hickory, or perhaps old Kitchen, the schoolmaster, looming over him like an inexorable fate. He hung about unseen until the jangle of a horse-shoe and a poker called all hands to supper. When they were plying knife and fork, he slipped in and took a seat quietly at the long table. A great pewter platter was heaped with chunks of boiled meat; another was filled with corn on the ear, and still another with potatoes with their jackets on. Bowls of gravy, and bread, broken into pieces as the loaves went round, completed the bill of fare. White bread was hardly known in the mountains, corn and rye, or “rye and Indian,” seeming to answer every demand of the wayfarer. In those times some taverns had menus to suit the purse and fastidiousness of the traveller. For “Corn-bread and common doin’s” the charge was fifteen cents, but for “White bread and chicken fixin’s” the bill was two bits, or twenty-five cents.

Davy tackled the platters as they went the rounds, but in spite of his hunger, he was conscious that there were sharp eyes awake to the fact that a strange boy was at the table. His eldest sister had ceased eating in the intentness of her gaze. He was so much larger than when he had left home, that she was full of doubt, but at last, as her eyes met Davy’s squarely, and his face became red with blushing, she sprang from her seat at the table, and screaming, “It’s Davy! It’s Davy, Mother! It’s Davy come back!” she threw her arms about his neck, clinging to him with tears of joy running down her face. This was his restoration to those who loved him, and whose reception of the wanderer so touched his boyish heart that he humbled himself before them, no longer fearing that they had forgotten him during the long and weary time he had spent away from them.

Davy was now a strong and healthy youngster almost fifteen years old, with much worldly wisdom, but unable to read or write.