Davy runs for Congress—He plays the part of the little red fox—The guinea-hens annoy Davy’s opponent—Davy’s coon-skin cap and his rifle win the election in spite of Jackson’s opposition—He is now the Hon. David Crockett, M.C., and a national character—Again crosses the mountains on his way to the capital—Familiar scenes bring back old memories—He repays the friend who lent him money for the campaign—In the “straggling village of Washington”—Davy’s dream of future greatness—He becomes acquainted with Clay, Webster, and other great men.

It will be remembered that Davy was beaten by two votes in 1825, Colonel Alexander being elected to Congress at a time when cotton was twenty-five cents per pound. The Colonel took his part of the credit for this advance in prices, and was a winner as a tariff supporter. While he was in Congress, cotton tumbled to six and eight cents, and the Colonel was out of political ammunition. The story of Colonel Crockett’s bear-hunting on the Obion had been told in every cabin. His wreck and escape from drowning on the river awakened the sympathy of every poor man in his district, and they made up the greater part of the population. As may be supposed, Davy had no money for a canvass of so large a district; but a good friend gave him enough to start with, and seems to have been at many of the meetings, always with a little more to help along. In time this amounted to one hundred and fifty dollars, not a great sum for a three months’ campaign.

Davy’s opponents were Colonel Alexander, for reËlection, and General William Arnold, of the militia, who was also an advocate and a brilliant speaker. The situation reminds us of the Æsopian fable:

“A Lion and a Tiger happened to come together over the dead body of a Fawn that had recently been shot. A fierce battle ensued, and as each animal was in the prime of his age and strength, the combat was long and furious. At last they lay stretched on the ground, panting, bleeding, and exhausted, each unable to lift a paw against the other. An impudent Fox, coming by at the time, stepped in and carried off before their eyes the prey for which they had suffered so much.”

It is a curious coincidence when Davy says that he was as cunning “as a little red fox,” and would not risk his tail in a “committal trap,” carefully avoiding any declaration of his rather vague political creed. His competitors were so busy warring against each other, that they lost sight of the little red fox whom they had not thought worthy of attention.

In one of the eastern counties of the district an amusing incident occurred. The three candidates were to speak at a meeting, and Davy’s turn came first. He made a short talk in the style that he had found always interested the men of his kind. The others followed with tedious attacks upon each other’s platforms, but without honoring Davy with a mention. In the midst of Colonel Alexander’s speech, some guinea-hens raised their sharp, staccato cries that sounded like “Crockett! Crockett! Crockett!” They so disturbed the Colonel that he had them driven away before going on with the speech. As soon as he had finished, Davy congratulated him upon being opposed to fowl language in public. The Colonel was at a loss for a reply to something of which he did not see the point, whereupon Davy went on to explain that the guinea-hens had offended his opponent because they had called for “Crockett! Crockett!” The whole crowd caught the joke and yelled with fierce backwoods mirth, and Davy records that “the Colonel seemed mighty bad plagued.” Party lines were not tightly drawn in those days, but out of the confusion was slowly taking place a separation of the elements that were to form the Republicans, under Jackson, and the Whigs, who later elected General Harrison as President of the United States. The Republicans later became the Democratic party, and about 1856, strange and confusing as it now seems, their opponents took the name of “Republicans.”

Davy went into every nook and corner of his district, meeting and making friends. If there was a barbecue, he was the first attraction; at a shooting-match every one gloried in his skill. When the returns were complete they showed that Colonel Crockett had a plurality of 2,748 votes. This was so remarkable a victory over the men who supported the tariff legislation of 1824, that Davy became known at once all over the United States. The men who were urging the people of the country to make Jackson President, and who elected him in 1828, were proud of his origin; they gloried in his lowly birth, and proclaimed him a proof of the virtues that existed beneath the rough garb of the backwoodsman. And as they glorified Andrew Jackson, they exalted Davy Crockett. What Jackson had been, Davy Crockett was; he was still “the man from the cane,” the bear-hunter, the Indian fighter, the man who “went ahead.” In his little cabin on the Obion were his wife and children, sons and daughters of the wilderness; his coon-skin cap still hung upon the wall, his rifle stood by the open door; his garments were spun beneath his humble roof, and with his own daily labor he fed those who were dear to him. He was honest, fearless, and could read and write only with difficulty. All these things endeared him to the men of the Chickasaw Purchase, who also could read and write only with infinite pains. Until now the Presidents of the United States had been chosen from the ranks of the aristocrats. John Quincy Adams, who was then President, was the coldest and most dignified of the long line.

Congress convened in December, in regular session, and after a tearful farewell to his family, the Honorable David Crockett, M.C. from Tennessee, took the old trail across the mountains. Many of his boyhood friends came to meet him after he left Nashville, and every day brought back old memories as he saw the familiar scenes. The sumacs glowed like fire upon the slopes of the Great Smoky Mountains, and among the sombre forests of pine and hemlock were the gold and crimson glories of the maple and the oak. The deer still watched the travellers from its hiding-place, and the owl called solemnly through the twilight, as of old; but the tom-tom no longer summoned the red men to council, or stirred the quiet wilderness with a dread of the tomahawk and the knife. The work of the pioneer was done. The farmer and the artisan were building an empire upon the foundations he had laid, and Davy Crockett, backwoodsman and scout, was about to take part with the proudest in the land in the making of a nation’s laws.

Before he started for Washington, his rich friend advanced him a hundred dollars more, to cover his expenses to that city. Regarding this loan, he has said: “I came on to Washington, and drawed two hundred and fifty dollars, and purchased with it a check on the bank at Nashville, and enclosed it to my friend; and I may say, in truth, I sent this money with a right good-will, for I reckon nobody in this world loves a friend better than me, or remembers a kindness longer.”

As the early nights came on in Washington, which was then an unkempt city of scarcely twenty thousand people, and which twelve years afterwards the English traveller, George Combes, wrote of as a “straggling village in a half-drained swamp,” Davy looked across the marshes of the Potomac and the Anacostia, and pictured to himself a far-away scene upon the Rutherford Fork: a little space in the wilderness, where the corn-stalks rustled in the autumn wind; the sturdy cabin, built of logs and chinked with clay, before whose door his faithful hounds slept a fitful sleep, awaiting their master’s call; the near-by “harricane,” where the bears ever grew fatter, undisturbed by the crack of rifle or the baying of dogs; bright, loving faces looking wistfully across the unnumbered miles on which he had followed the flickering torch of Fame. He believed himself a great man. Against the polished learning and the subtleties of the aristocrat, he measured with a rather excusable complacency his own common-sense and his own victories. As the days wore on and he became used to the daily grind at the Capitol, he found himself known to every public man in the city, and became more reconciled to political life. His idioms of speech were watched for with an intentness that flattered his pride. He no longer wore a coon-skin cap or homespun clothing, but there was something in the way in which he traversed the quagmires of Pennsylvania Avenue, that was different from the more mincing gait of the aristocratic statesmen and diplomats who found relief from their official labors in leading the minuet.

Davy entered into politics in dead earnest, and by the time he had been sought out by such men as Henry Clay and Daniel Webster, and others eager to turn to account every factor in politics, he began to dream. Andrew Jackson had come of lowly parentage, from a cabin in the wilderness; he was sure to be elected President, if he lived, in two years more. If Andrew Jackson, why not Davy Crockett?

Davy’s ambitious nature is revealed in his own story, written or dictated during his career as a Congressman, and after his departure from the Republican, or Jackson, fold. In this he makes these remarks, as he tells one of the reasons for recounting his experiences in book-form:

“I know that as obscure as I am, my name is making considerable of a fuss in the world. I can’t tell why it is, nor in what it is to end. Go where I will, everybody seems anxious to get a peep at me; and it would be hard to tell which would have the advantage if I and the ‘Government’ [Jackson] and ‘Black Hawk’ [Adam Huntsman, his competitor in the Congressional campaigns], and a great big eternal caravan of wild varments were all to be showed at the same time in four different parts of any of the big cities in the nation. I am not so sure that I should not get the most custom of any of the crew. There must therefore be something in me, or about me, that attracts attention, which is even mysterious to myself.”

In one instance Davy uses the words, “Just as Clay and Webster and myself are preparing to fix bank matters, on account of the scarcity of money.” He also speaks of “a few such men as Clay and Webster and myself.” His reflections at this time throw light upon the sudden turning-point in his career, a few years later.

When Davy arrived at Washington, the news of the great naval battle of Navarino had just arrived by the clipper ship North Star, twelve days from London. When she rounded to in Baltimore harbor, stowing her sails with trim precision almost before her anchor caught, the men of the sea were more interested in the “cracker-jack” run than in the news she brought. When Davy heard of the incidents connected with the naval battle, he is said to have remarked that “when three kinds of wild varments get to hunting together, Uncle Sam would better be looking out for his sheep.” He referred to the fact that during four hours of the afternoon of October 20, 1827, the combined squadrons of England, Russia, and France, made up of ten ships of the line, ten frigates, and nine smaller vessels, had shot to pieces or sunk under fire more than one hundred war-vessels of the Turkish navy, under Moharem Bey, four thousand Moslems being killed or drowned. The battle of Navarino failed to wake Uncle Sam to his need of a navy, and until the wolves, in the shape of the Florida and the Alabama and other ships quite as daring, began to thin his flock, he remained asleep. The politicians of 1827 to 1840 were men who fought each other with any weapons they could wield, and, in want of weapon, they used filth and mud. A merciful oblivion has covered with the dust of many years their words and deeds.