Davy builds a mill and distillery—Along Shoal Creek—A tidal wave in politics—Another one in Shoal Creek leaves Davy without a dollar—The year 1822 sees Davy seeking a new home on the Obion River—Encounter of his party with floods—The story of the flat-boat’s trip up the Obion—Davy builds a cabin in the wilderness—A great day for deer—The passing of the red man—Davy returns to the Obion with his whole family—Risks his life for a keg of powder at Christmas time—He is now loaded for bears.

While Davy Crockett was rapidly becoming known to the people of his State, he was planning to increase his income by building a large distillery, and a mill for grinding corn, with an addition for the manufacture of powder. He had saved enough money partly to pay for it, and built it in a great measure with his own hands. After the mill began its output, Mrs. Crockett acted as miller when Davy was absent. She is said to have been able to lift the bags of corn about, as well as the men who brought them could. The tourist to-day will look in vain for the site of the mill. Where the great wheel turned slowly beneath the weight of the waters of the creek, and the rumble of the millstones startled the traveller with the sound of distant thunder, the rhododendron now opens its gorgeous buds, and the laurels cover the waste places with a measureless profusion of delicate flowers. Among the hemlocks close to the quiet stream, the thrush and the cat-bird sing their liquid scores, and the redbird and the scarlet tanager vie with the Kentucky and blue-winged yellow warblers in the glory of their April dress. All things are changed in these old places of the world, until we climb the mountains to its top, and see the far blue ranging crests that blend at last with gentle skies, unchanging and unchanged.

When Davy set out for Nashville, to take his seat as a member of the Legislature, he had finished his mill, but still owed for labor and material. The mill was worth three or four thousand dollars, and besides that, he owned several able-bodied slaves, and more than the usual stock of goods and chattels. He saw prosperity and honors assured, and his soul was full of faith in the future. The Legislature that came together after the elections of 1821 was composed of the class that represented the men of the frontier, rather than the aristocracy that had hitherto monopolized both the wealth and the honors of the State.

In the same year, William Carroll, who had so bravely commanded the rear guard of Jackson’s forces at Enotachopco Creek, was a candidate for the Governorship. He represented, as did Davy, the men who paid rentals to monopolists, and taxes to the State that favored the wealthy in the filling of remunerative offices. When Carroll’s enemies accused him of having let his note go to protest, they threw a boomerang that slew them in its sudden homeward flight; for Carroll’s friends made it known that he had lost everything in going security for them in dire financial straits. His opponent, Ward, was cold and unapproachable. To him a man from the cane-brakes or the windowless cabins of the mountains was little better than the savages just beyond. In Phelan’s history of Tennessee, there is mention of a sarcastic letter printed in the Nashville Clarion over the signature “A Big Fish.” In this the supposed Big Fish, or Big-Bug, as the aristocrat was then often called, gave the reasons why he could not vote for Carroll. He said that Carroll was born of poor parents, and had never learned the rudiments of Latin and Greek; as a boy and a young man, he had plowed and reaped and cleared the land; he had always been handy at log-rollings, country weddings, and huskings; he had gone to the wars, instead of staying home to save the wealth that was needed for the Governor’s position; he could not support the dignity of the great office with fine dinners, splendid carriages, liveried servants, and state balls; he was too ready to shake hands with the ragged soldier because they had fought on the same fields. A man who was not above such low-born loons was not fit to command the votes of the educated and the men of the higher classes.

Carroll received forty-two thousand votes, while his austere and wealthy rival had but eleven thousand. On the same popular tidal wave, Davy Crockett was carried to Nashville as a representative of his neighbors in the recent Purchase from the Indians, and in the atmosphere that prevailed in the halls of state he believed he had found his place.

Davy had hardly been sworn in as a member of the Legislature when bad news from home reached him. A freshet had swept away his mill, and his distillery was worthless without the corn that was ground by it. When he had served through the session, he rode home, sold all that he had, and paid every dollar he could realize to his creditors. He was left with nothing but his household “plunder,” as he termed it, and the times were hard. The “Loan Bank” scheme that was to provide a currency and credit for development of the State had become a failure. There was nothing to do, in such times, but to live by the sweat of the brow. His wife stood bravely by him, and he gave up all he had, and “took a bran-fire new start.”

He was now thirty-six, and his oldest boy was sixteen. With this son and a young man named Abram Henry, Davy started in the spring of 1822 to look at the Obion River region, then reputed to be full of game. It was a long tramp across an unsettled country, nearly one hundred and fifty miles in a bee-line, and the three led a single horse which carried their scanty outfit of food, blankets, and ammunition. There were many streams to cross, including the Tennessee. In what is now Carroll County they struck the head of the south fork of the Obion River, and this they followed to a place about ten miles south of where the small settlement named after Crockett now is situated. Here they found themselves in a wilderness, abounding with game. The three nearest cabins were seven, fifteen, and twenty miles distant. The one seven miles away was that of the Owens family, and it was on the other side of the Rutherford Fork of the Obion, a tortuous stream, then in flood and over its low banks for half a mile on either shore. The water was chilly, the depth uncertain, and the crossing difficult and full of danger.

There was nothing to do but to take to the water, and after hobbling the horse, so that he could graze till they returned for him, they went at it “like so many beavers.” When the water was too deep to go ahead, Davy felt the way over the shallower bottom by using a pole. His boy often had to swim beside them, and progress was slow. When the river channel was reached, they found that a tree had fallen and lodged in a pile of flood-trash near the middle of the main stream. The water was deep at this place, and there was no way of crossing without some kind of a bridge. A large buttonwood tree stood upon the near side of the river, and the two men began cutting it down with Davy’s tomahawk. They managed to do this so that it fell above the flood-trash, and when it had been washed against it the bridge was ready.

“When we got over this,” says Davy, “it was still a sea of water as far as the eye could reach. We took into it again, and went ahead for about a mile, hardly ever seeing a single spot of land, and sometimes it was very deep. When at last we came in sight of land, and got out, it was but a little way before we saw the house, which was more pleasing even than the sight of land. I felt mighty sorry when I would look at my boy, and see him shaking like he had the worst kind of an ague, for there was no time for fever then. As we got near the house, we saw Mr. Owens and several men that were with him, just starting away. They saw us, and stopped, but looked much astonished until we got up to them, and I made myself known. The men who were with him were the owners of a boat which was the first that ever went that far up the Obion River, and some hands they had hired to carry it about a hundred miles further up, by water, though it was only about thirty, by land, as the river is very crooked.”

The whole party then went back to the Owens cabin, where Mrs. Owens won Davy’s gratitude by taking charge of the shivering boy. A great fire blazed in the fireplace, and before that they dried themselves. After supper, leaving his boy with Mrs. Owens, Davy and the others went on board of the boat, and stayed all night. It was a flat-bottomed boat, drawing but a foot or so of water. The cabin, or deck-house, was of light material, furnished with bunks, and stored with the freight that would be injured by rains. The other freight was lashed on deck, and the load was all that was safe to carry. This boat was carrying flour, sugar, castings, coffee, salt, and other goods needed on the frontier, and was to go as far as McLemore’s Bluff. This was in Carroll County (as now named), and the crew were to be paid five hundred dollars bonus if they landed the freight at that point. It was to be a proof that the river was navigable thus far, though it seems that a flood was first necessary.

In the morning Davy went with the boat, to help get it by a place on the river where a “harricane” had blown trees across it, making it hard to get through. They found that the water had gone down, and had to wait for a rain. The next day it rained “rip-roariously,” as Davy tells us, but yet not enough. While waiting, Davy and the boatmen crossed the Fork, and in a short time “slapped up a cabin” on a spot selected by him. Here Davy procured four barrels of meal, one of salt, and ten gallons of spirits, in payment for which he was to help get the boat to McLemore’s Bluff. Henry and the boy were left in the new cabin, after a deer had been killed for them, and other supplies provided.

The day after the cabin was built, Davy started out with his rifle for a hunt. Within a few minutes he had killed a fine buck, and hung him up. He started to go back to the boat for help in bringing him in, but on the way he struck the trail of a number of elk and went after them. In a short time he saw two deer, large bucks with immense antlers. He dropped one, and then shot the other, which would not leave the one first killed. Hanging the two out of reach of bears and wolves, Davy kept after the elk till evening, when he gave up the chase, being four miles from the cabin, and “as hungry as a wolf.”

As he set out for the river, on his way back, he killed two more bucks. Dressing these in the usual way, with the skins on, he hung them up and kept on. Before he got to the river, just at sundown, he killed another buck, making six since morning. At last he reached the lower edge of the “harricane,” and was disappointed at not finding the boat there. He had not expected it could be taken through that day. When he fired his rifle as a signal, the answer came from up the river. He then knew that he had to crawl and climb through the “harricane,” in which all kinds of berry-bushes and vines were growing. A fat coon would have had a hard time in getting through after him, he tells us. Finally he got to a place where a skiff came for him. He says that he felt as if he needed sewing up all over, thanks to the brambles and the briers along his trail, and he was so tired that he could scarcely work his jaws to eat.

The next morning four of the deer were secured and taken on board, and the voyage proceeded. Pushing, and hauling with ropes, it took eleven days to reach the Bluff, from which point Davy and a young man named Flavius Harris went back to his cabin in the skiff, given to them by the boatmen. They at once cleared a field, in the usual rough way, leaving the charred stumps standing, and planting among them. Davy put in enough corn to do for the winter, but had no time for fencing. It was late spring, and he was anxious to return for his family. While thus planting and planning, Davy killed ten bears and “a great abundance of deer,” repaying the Owens family many times over for their kindness to him and his boy. In these weeks of hard work the only white faces seen were those of the Owenses, and once in a while those of men looking over the country.

There were many Indians in the timber, and sometimes they came to Davy’s clearing, and watched with vague forebodings the gleam of the axe and the tender green of the springing grain. Their traditions were full of the untrammelled freedom of the wilderness, of the plentiful supplies of game and mast, of rivers alive with fish, on whose banks the beaver and otter were scarcely afraid of those who wore the splendid peltries of their kind. When they turned from the scene towards the solitude of the wilderness, their hearts were sad, for the knell of their race resounded through their ancient temples, built by the Great Spirit, whose aisles were rows of stately oak and pine, whose arches of living green were hung with golden blossoms of the tulip-tree and the fiery clusters of the trumpet-vine. There was no sentiment in the heart of the pioneer, who classed the Indian, the wolf, and the moccasin of the steaming swamp, as equally worthy of extermination.

When the corn had started, Davy made his way back to Shoal Creek, and from there to Nashville to attend a special session of the Legislature. With his three dollars per diem in his pocket, he returned to the scene of his disasters, and as soon as possible started with all his family for the clearing on the Rutherford Fork of the Obion, where Harris was working out his own salvation with axe and fire, while keeping the “varments” out of the Crockett corn. It was some time in the fall of 1822 that the wearied family came in sight of the rude cabin that was to be their home. Most of them had tramped the one hundred and fifty miles across the trackless land, for upon the horses were loaded the household effects and wearing apparel that Davy still owned. The loom, the wooden trencher, spare clothing, table utensils, and a few rude dishes were about all that the pioneer thought necessary in these days, always excepting the priceless ammunition and the guns.

The small clearing of six to eight acres that Davy had made, a quarter of a mile east of the Fork, could only partly feed so many mouths, and the task of supporting his family would have been desperate, had it not been for the supply of game that could always be counted upon. The river and the lakes were full of fish, and when the meat for the winter had been cured or salted down, there was always a good chance of getting more if needed. When Davy had harvested his crop of corn, in the last of October, 1822, he set out for the usual fall hunt. The buffalo had already disappeared from that vicinity, and he never saw one of these ponderous animals until he was on the way to the Alamo, in the last year of his life. Of all other wild “varments,” as he termed them, the woods were full.

When Christmas approached Davy’s supply of powder ran low, and he determined to cross the Fork and go to the home of a brother-in-law who had settled six miles west, and who had brought with him a keg of powder for Davy. The river was full of slush ice, and was out of its banks, as when Davy first saw it, but the determination to have powder for the usual Christmas fusillade, and the fact that they were out of meat, overruled his wife’s argument that they might as well starve as to have him drown or freeze. With his gun and hunting tools, and a few extras in the way of clothing, he started through the deep snow that had fallen, and waded across half a mile of flooded ground, until the main channel was before him. This he crossed on a log that lay from bank to bank, but farther on he came to a slough which was wider than the river itself, though he had always been able to cross it on another log. This was entirely under water, but he recognized its location by the sapling that stood beside it. By cutting another long sapling and lodging it against the first, he managed to use the submerged log as a bridge, and reached an island, now under water in the slough. Again wading for a long distance, he crossed another slough part way on a floating log, but fell off it when it turned over with him. He waded out of the water, which was nearly up to his head, and when he got to solid ground, put on the dry clothing which he had held, with his rifle, above the water. He says that after he had done this and had hung the wet clothing on the bushes, he had no feeling in his flesh. He tried to run to warm himself, but could scarcely move his feet.

When he got to his brother-in-law’s cabin, he thought the smell of the fire the best thing he had ever known. The next morning was piercing cold, and he stayed there to hunt, killing two deer for the family. The third day he decided to return, hoping that the ice had frozen so as to help him cross the still places in the sloughs. But time after time he broke through, and when he reached the sloughs and the river he had to go through the same performance as he had when he first crossed them—a feat made even harder by having to cross first with his gun, and then go back for the powder-keg. The ice had been broken as if a bear had gone across, and he at once fresh primed his gun, so that he was ready to “make war upon him,” if he appeared. When Davy reached his home, he was hailed as one risen from the dead. He learned that the ice had been broken by a man sent after him by his distressed wife, who had given up hope of his ever returning. He concludes this incident by saying: “I wasn’t quite dead, but mighty nigh it; but I had my powder, and that was what I went for.” This impatience at delay was one of Davy’s traits. He might easily have managed to subsist until the falling of the water, or until the ice was strong enough to bear him, but he couldn’t wait. It is a sure thing that he celebrated Christmas with a part of the dearly-earned powder.