Davy is defeated for Congress—Another scalp for Old Hickory—Davy’s defeat is a crushing blow—He decides to go to Texas—Takes a sad leave of his family and sets forth in hunting suit with “Betsy” over his shoulder—On board the Mediterranean to Helena—The eighty thousand dollar fund, of which Bowie, Fannin, Travis, and Crockett are named as trustees—More about Texas affairs—Davy starts from Little Rock for Fulton, on the way to San Antonio—The travelling parson and the Washita—Davy’s faith in God—Meets with Thimblerig, the gambler—The gambler enlists with Colonel Crockett.

“I begin this chapter,” says Davy’s account of the campaign, “at home, in Weakley County. I have just returned from a two weeks’ electioneering canvass, and I have spoken every day to large concourses of people, with my competitor. I have him badly plagued, for he does not know as much about the ‘Government,’ the deposites [referring to the United States Bank], and the Little Flying Dutchman [Van Buren], as I can tell the people; and at times he is as much bothered as a fly in a tar-pot to get out of the mess. His name is Adam Huntsman; he lost a leg in an Indian fight, they say, during the last war, and the Government run him on account of his military services. I tell him in my speech that I have great hopes of writing one more book, and that shall be the second fall of Adam, for he is on the Eve of an Almighty thrashing. He relishes the joke about as much as a doctor does his own physic. I handle the administration without gloves, and I do believe I will double my competitor, if I have a fair shake, and he does not work like a mole in the dark. Jacksonism is dying here faster than it ever sprung up, and I predict that ‘The Government’ will be the most unpopular man, in one year more, that ever had any pretensions to the high place he now fills. Four weeks from to-morrow will end the dispute in our elections, and if old Adam is not beaten out of his hunting-shirt, my name isn’t Crockett.”

This was Davy’s state of mind in July, 1835. The election took place about the 1st of August, and he had yet to learn that many of the fair words received, and many of the promises, were of no more value, to use his own words, “than a flash in the pan when you have a good shot at a fat bear.”

Under the special directions of Andrew Jackson, every means of beating Davy Crockett was put in practice. Copies of the Globe, franked by his opponents, accused Davy of collecting excess mileage, of being a traitor to the interests of his State, of fawning upon the aristocrats of the Eastern States, of everything that could be urged against him. When the die was cast, he writes, in the gloom of defeat, these words:

“August 11, 1835. I am now at home in Weakley County. My canvass is over, and the result is known. Contrary to all expectations, I am beaten two hundred and thirty votes, from the best information I can get; and in this instance, I may say, bad is the best.... I have been told by good men that some of the managers of the Union Bank [at Jackson] were heard to say, on the day of election, that they would give twenty-five dollars a vote for enough votes to elect Mr. Huntsman. This is a pretty good price for a vote, and in ordinary times a round dozen might be got for the money.

“As my country no longer requires my services, I have made up my mind to go to Texas. My life has been one of danger, toil, and privation, but these difficulties I had to encounter at a time when I considered it nothing more than right good sport to surmount them. Now I start anew upon my own hook, and God only grant that it may be strong enough to support the weight hung upon it. I have a new row to hoe, a long and rough one, but, come what will, I’ll go ahead!”

At a general meeting in his district Davy spoke for the last time to the voters of western Tennessee. Recounting his services, and the unfair methods by which he thought himself to have been beaten, he made a pretty strong talk, and concluded by saying that he could not think it a fair fight; but that he was done with politics for the present, and that he was going to Texas.

In all stories of Davy’s life, the poem said to have been written by himself, on the eve of his departure for Texas, is given a prominent place. In his own story he says that it was as “zigzag as a worm fence” when first written, but was overhauled by one Peleg Longfellow, who could hardly have been a relative of H. W. Longfellow. After this and much lopping of some lines and stretching out of others, Davy says he wished he might be shot if wasn’t worse than ever. This is the concluding verse of the poem:

Having now determined to “cut out and quit the States until honest men should have a chance to work their way to the head of the heap,” Davy said good-by to his friends and his family, and started for Mills’ Point, to take a boat down the river.

“The thermometer stood somewhat below freezing point,” he says, “as I left my wife and children; still there was some thawing about the eyelids, a thing that had not happened since I ran away from my father’s house when a thoughtless, vagabond boy. I dressed myself in a clean hunting-shirt, put on a new fox-skin cap with the tail hanging behind, took hold of my rifle ‘Betsy,’ which all the world knows was presented to me by the patriots of Philadelphia, and, thus equipped, started off to go ahead in a new world.”

It appears that up to this time Davy’s account of his life had been taken down by the editor of his book or an assistant. From time to time more was added, evidently from notes or messages sent from the frontier. Manifestos signed by Davy Crockett bear no trace of his style, nor do the concluding chapters of his book, which he never saw completed. Whoever helped the rounding out of his narrative could easily have followed Davy in his wanderings, and it must be taken for granted that this was done. All through the book there is a random way of telling the story, but in no case, after careful study, does there appear any discrepancy.

When Davy boarded the steamer Mediterranean at the Point, he was welcomed by many prominent men on the way to Arkansas and Texas. The steamboat was one of the finest on the river, and before her gangway was aboard, and the slowly turning paddle-wheels had sent the surging waves against the muddy banks, Davy was the centre of a group of bankers, soldiers, Indian-fighters, gamblers, speculators, and all that then made the river their highway. They were interested in the future of Texas, and were determined to make it free of Mexican rule. In the spectacular figure of the famous scout, bear-hunter, and Congressman, they saw a new ideal. Such a history as his was rare to their experiences. They knew he might be relied upon for courage and honesty. When the Mediterranean tied up at Helena, in a storm, a subscription of eighty thousand dollars for the Texan cause was made up on board. Davy Crockett, James Bowie, Colonel Hawkins, Captain Travis, and Captain Fannin were made trustees of this fund. Every one of these names is blazoned upon the Texan scroll of fame. The money was paid in, put in charge of John Slidell, Governor White, and S. S. Prentiss, and was all used in freeing Texas from Mexico.

Davy is said to have gone to New Orleans, and is known to have visited Natchez, stirring up the more peaceable to active interest in the affairs of the Americans threatened by the new attitude of the Mexican Government. For three years all Mexican troops had been kept out of Texas; the latest news told of the coming of General Cos with a strong force, and the garrisoning of San Antonio by several hundred Mexican soldiers, selected, by orders from Santa Anna, from the lowest classes, men who were ever ready to cut throats, plunder, or insult the colonists. With the money subscribed, the gathering of supplies for the “inevitable conflict” went rapidly forward. The return of Stephen F. Austin, after eight months’ captivity in Mexican prisons, brought a new force into the field. The Americans cast bullets, looked to their priming, and built adobe forts under pretense of building homes. The slow ferment of racial hatred, the antipathies of men who worshipped God in different ways or not at all, the cherishing of the memories of murderous deeds on both sides, grew slowly into a flood of passion, fed by every heart-throb day and night.

After various journeys along and about the Red River, Davy started for the front, where the old city of San Antonio de Bejar stood forever the centre of bloody tragedies and bitter strife. After being entertained in true Western style at Little Rock, he set forth for Fulton, one hundred and twenty miles across country. The citizens had given him a horse and saddle, and the company of four or five men, bound for Washita River, gave the party the appearance of a band of scouts. After a ride of fifty miles they drew near the river, when sounds of music were heard. “Hail Columbia” rolled across the fringe of alders along the banks, but when they raised their voices in a cheer the playing stopped, to again break into that old sad song of vanished hopes, “Over the Water to Charlie.” Putting spurs to their tired horses, they came to the river’s edge, to look upon the spectacle of a travelling parson whom they had seen at Little Rock, sitting in a sulky in the middle of the swirling stream. His horse could barely keep his feet, and yet the parson played with a composure that told of his faith in a higher power. He had fiddled for more than an hour, not daring to turn or venture on, and when he was rescued by Davy’s company he was about used up.

From this point Davy went on towards Fulton with the preacher, as far as Greenville. As they rode along, the old parson spoke so warmly of the bountiful works of Providence that his faith was imparted to his companion. “We were alone in the wilderness,” wrote Davy, “but all things told me that God was there. The thought renewed my strength and courage. I had left my country; felt somewhat like an outcast; but now I was conscious that there was One still watching over me. My soul leaped with joy at the thought: I never felt so grateful in all my life; I never before loved God so sincerely. I felt that I still had a friend.”

There are some that will sneer at Davy’s confession of his faith and love, forgetting that the wandering outcast, even the worst of men, looks out sometimes from the darkest depths to the long-remembered sweetness of a mother’s smile. “How sharp the point of this remembrance is!” The careless or the hardened shrink from tender memories, but sometimes, in the moment of evil impulse or of passion’s sway, their hands by these are stayed from wickedness. In such a heart as Davy Crockett’s there will always burn the reverential fires that keep the soul alight.

At Fulton Davy took passage on a steamboat for Natchitoches, in Louisiana. As the boat puffed its way down the writhing channel of the Red River, he noticed a small cluster of passengers intent upon something that seemed to be very amusing. “I drew nigh to the cluster,” he says, “and, seated on a chest, was a tall, lank sea-sarpent-looking blackleg, who was interesting the passengers by his skill at thimble-rig [the shell game]; at the same time he was picking up their shillings just as fast as a hungry gobbler would a pint of corn.”

Noticing Davy’s interest in his actions, the gambler finally urged him to make a bet; whereupon Davy, knowing the trick, named the thimble under which the pea was resting, but insisted upon lifting it himself. The pea was there, and the gambler was obliged to treat the crowd about him. After the laugh was over, “poor Thimblerig,” as Davy calls him, had to forego his game, and soon came and started a conversation with the man who had outwitted him. He seemed to be a good-natured, intelligent sort of fellow, “with a keen eye to the main chance.” “He belonged to that numerous class,” says Davy, “that you can trust as far as you can sling a bull by the tail, and no farther. All the time he was talking to me he was seated on a chest, playing mechanically with his pea and thimbles, as if he was afraid he would lose his sleight-of-hand.”

At Natchitoches, the gambler, deploring his past and the hopelessness of his leading an honest life, was told by Davy that if he could not really lead the life of an honest man, the next best thing was to die like a brave one.

“Most men are remembered as they died,” said Davy “and not as they lived.”

“You are right; but how is this to be done?”

“Come with me to Texas; cut aloof from your degrading habits and associates, and in fighting for freedom, regain your own.”

The gambler started from the table at which he was sitting, seized Davy’s hand, and exclaimed, with kindling eyes, “I will be a man again, and live honestly or die bravely. I will go with you to Texas.” In this way was Thimblerig enlisted. His real name is not known.