CHAPTER II.
Youthful Adventures.
David at Gerardstown.--Trip to Baltimore.--Anecdotes.--He ships for
London.--Disappointment.--Defrauded of his Wages.--Escapes.--New
Adventures.--Crossing the River.--Returns Home.--His Reception.--A
Farm Laborer.--Generosity to his Father.--Love Adventure.--The Wreck
of his Hopes.--His School Education.--Second Love Adventure.--Bitter
Disappointment.--Life in the Backwoods.--Third Love Adventure.
The wagoner whom David had accompanied to Gerardstown was
disappointed in his endeavors to find a load to take back to
Tennessee. He therefore took a load to Alexandria, on the Potomac.
David decided to remain at Gerardstown until Myers should return. He
therefore engaged to work for a man by the name of John Gray, for
twenty-five cents a day. It was light farm-work in which he was
employed, and he was so faithful in the performance of his duties
that he pleased the farmer, who was an old man, very much.
Myers continued for the winter in teaming backward and forward
between Gerardstown and Baltimore, while David found a comfortable
home of easy industry with the farmer. He was very careful in the
expenditure of his money, and in the spring found that he had saved
enough from his small wages to purchase him a suit of coarse but
substantial clothes. He then, wishing to see a little more of the
world, decided to make a trip with the wagoner to Baltimore.
David had then seven dollars in his pocket, the careful savings of
the labors of half a year. He deposited the treasure with the
wagoner for safe keeping. They started on their journey, with a
wagon heavily laden with barrels of flour. As they were approaching
a small settlement called Ellicott's Mills, David, a little ashamed
to approach the houses in the ragged and mud-bespattered clothes
which he wore on the way, crept into the wagon to put on his better
garments.
While there in the midst of the flour barrels piled up all around
him, the horses took fright at some strange sight which they
encountered, and in a terrible scare rushed down a steep hill,
turned a sharp corner, broke the tongue of the wagon and both of the
axle-trees, and whirled the heavy barrels about in every direction.
The escape of David from very serious injuries seemed almost
miraculous. But our little barbarian leaped from the ruins
unscathed. It does not appear that he had ever cherished any
conception whatever of an overruling Providence. Probably, a
religious thought had never entered his mind. A colt running by the
side of the horses could not have been more insensible to every idea
of death, and responsibility at God's bar, than was David Crockett.
And he can be hardly blamed for this. The savages had some idea of
the Great Spirit and of a future world. David was as uninstructed in
those thoughts as are the wolves and the bears. Many years
afterward, in writing of this occurrence, he says, with
characteristic flippancy, interlarded with coarse phrases:
"This proved to me, if a fellow is born to be hung he will never be
drowned; and further, that if he is born for a seat in Congress,
even flour barrels can't make a mash of him. I didn't know how soon
I should be knocked into a cocked hat, and get my walking-papers for
another country."
The wagon was quite demolished by the disaster. Another was
obtained, the flour reloaded, and they proceeded to Baltimore,
dragging the wreck behind them, to be repaired there. Here young
Crockett was amazed at the aspect of civilization which was opened
before him. He wandered along the wharves gazing bewildered upon the
majestic ships, with their towering masts, cordage, and sails, which
he saw floating there He had never conceived of such fabrics before.
The mansions, the churches, the long lines of brick stores excited
his amazement. It seemed to him that he had been suddenly introduced
into a sort of fairy-land. All thoughts of home now vanished from
his mind. The great world was expanding before him, and the
curiosity of his intensely active mind was roused to explore more of
its wonders.
One morning he ventured on board one of the ships at a wharf, and
was curiously and cautiously peering about, when the captain caught
sight of him. It so happened that he was in need of a sailor-boy,
and being pleased with the appearance of the lad, asked David if he
would not like to enter into his service to take a voyage to London.
The boy had no more idea of where London was, or what it was, than
of a place in the moon. But eagerly he responded, "Yes," for he
cared little where he went or what became of him, he was so glad of
an opportunity to see more of the wonders of this unknown world.
The captain made a few inquiries respecting his friends, his home,
and his past modes of life, and then engaged him for the cruise.
David, in a state of high, joyous excitement, hurried back to the
wagoner, to get his seven dollars of money and some clothes he had
left with him. But Myers put a very prompt veto upon the lad's
procedure, assuming that he was the boy's master, he declared that
he should not go to sea. He refused to let him have either his
clothes or his money, asserting that it was his duty to take him
back to his parents in Tennessee. David would gladly have fled from
him, and embarked without money and without clothes; but the wagoner
watched him so closely that escape was impossible.
David was greatly down-hearted at this disappointment, and watched
eagerly for an opportunity to obtain deliverance from his bondage.
But Myers was a burly teamster who swung a very heavy wagon-whip,
threatening the boy with a heavy punishment if he should make any
attempt to run away.
After a few days, Myers loaded his team for Tennessee, and with his
reluctant boy set out on his long journey. David was exceedingly
restless. He now hated the man who was so tyranically domineering
over him. He had no desire to return to his home, and he dreaded the
hickory stick with which he feared his brutal father would assail
him. One dark night, an hour or two before the morning, David
carefully took his little bundle of clothes, and creeping
noiselessly from the cabin, rushed forward as rapidly as his nimble
feet could carry him. He soon felt quite easy in reference to his
escape. He knew that the wagoner slept soundly, and that two hours
at least must elapse before he would open his eyes. He then would
not know with certainty in what direction the boy had fled. He could
not safely leave his horses and wagon alone in the wilderness, to
pursue him; and even should he unharness one of the horses and
gallop forward in search of the fugitive, David, by keeping a
vigilant watch, would see him in the distance and could easily
plunge into the thickets of the forest, and thus elude pursuit.
He had run along five or six miles, when just as the sun was rising
he overtook another wagon. He had already begun to feel very lonely
and disconsolate. He had naturally an affectionate heart and a
strong mind; traits of character which gleamed through all the dark
clouds that obscured his life. He was alone in the wilderness,
without a penny; and he knew not what to do, or which way to turn.
The moment he caught sight of the teamster his heart yearned for
sympathy. Tears moistened his eyes, and hastening to the stranger,
the friendless boy of but thirteen years frankly told his whole
story. The wagoner was a rough, profane, burly man, of generous
feelings. There was an air of sincerity in the boy, which convinced
him of the entire truth of his statements. His indignation was
aroused, and he gave expression to that indignation in unmeasured
terms. Cracking his whip in his anger, he declared that Myers was a
scoundrel, thus to rob a friendless boy, and that he would lash the
money out of him.
This man, whose name also chanced to be Myers, was of the tiger
breed, fearing nothing, ever ready for a fight, and almost
invariably coming off conqueror. In his generous rage he halted his
team, grasped his wagon-whip, and, accompanied by the trembling boy,
turned back, breathing vengeance. David was much alarmed, and told
his protector that he was afraid to meet the wagoner, who had so
often threatened him with his whip. But his new friend said," Have
no fear. The man shall give you back your money, or I will thrash it
out of him."
They had proceeded but about two miles when they met the approaching
team of Adam Myers. Henry Myers, David's new friend, leading him by
the hand, advanced menacingly upon the other teamster, and greeted
him with the words:
"You accursed scoundrel, what do you mean by robbing this friendless
boy of his money?" Adam Myers confessed that he had received seven
dollars of the boy's money. He said, however, that he had no money
with him; that he had invested all he had in articles in his wagon,
and that he intended to repay the boy as soon as they got back to
Tennessee. This settled the question, and David returned with Henry
Myers to his wagon, and accompanied him for several days on his slow
and toilsome journey westward.
The impatient boy, as once before, soon got weary of the loitering
pace of the heavily laden team, and concluded to leave his friend
and press forward more rapidly alone. It chanced, one evening, that
several wagons met, and the teamsters encamped for the night
together. Henry Myers told them the story of the friendless boy, and
that he was now about to set out alone for the long journey, most of
it through an entire wilderness, and through a land of strangers
wherever there might chance to be a few scattered cabins. They took
up a collection for David, and presented him with three dollars.
The little fellow pressed along, about one hundred and twenty-five
miles, down the valley between the Alleghany and the Blue ridges,
until he reached Montgomery Court House. The region then, nearly
three quarters of a century ago, presented only here and there a
spot where the light of civilization had entered. Occasionally the
log cabin of some poor emigrant was found in the vast expanse.
David, too proud to beg, when he had any money with which to pay,
found his purse empty when he had accomplished this small portion of
his journey.
In this emergence, he hired out to work for a man a month for five
dollars, which was at the rate of about one shilling a day.
Faithfully he fulfilled his contract, and then, rather dreading to
return home, entered into an engagement with a hatter, Elijah
Griffith, to work in his shop for four years. Here he worked
diligently eighteen months without receiving any pay. His employer
then failed, broke up, and left the country. Again this poor boy,
thus the sport of fortune, found himself without a penny, with but
few clothes, and those much worn.
But it was not his nature to lay anything very deeply to heart. He
laughed at misfortune, and pressed on singing and whistling through
all storms. He had a stout pair of hands, good nature, and
adaptation to any kind of work. There was no danger of his starving;
and exposures, which many would deem hardships, were no hardships
for him. Undismayed he ran here and there, catching at such
employment as he could find, until he had supplied himself with some
comfortable clothing, and had a few dollars of ready money in his
purse. Again he set out alone and on foot for his far-distant home.
He had been absent over two years, and was new fifteen years of age.
He trudged along, day after day, through rain and sunshine, until he
reached a broad stream called New River. It was wintry weather. The
stream was swollen by recent rains, and a gale then blowing was
ploughing the surface into angry waves. Teams forded the stream many
miles above. There was a log hut here, and the owner had a frail
canoe in which he could paddle an occasional traveller across the
river. But nothing would induce him to risk his life in an attempt
to cross in such a storm.
The impetuous boy, in his ignorance of the effect of wind upon
waves, resolved to attempt to cross, at every hazard, and
notwithstanding all remonstrances. He obtained a leaky canoe, which
was half stranded upon the shore, and pushed out on his perilous
voyage. He tied his little bundle of clothes to the bows of the
boat, that they might not be washed or blown away, and soon found
himself exposed to the full force of the wind, and tossed by billows
such as he had never dreamed of before. He was greatly frightened,
and would have given all he had in the world, to have been safely
back again upon the shore. But he was sure to be swamped if he
should attempt to turn the boat broadside to the waves in such a
gale. The only possible salvation for him was to cut the approaching
billows with the bows of the boat. Thus he might possibly ride over
them, though at the imminent peril, every moment, of shipping a sea
which would engulf him and his frail boat in a watery grave.
In this way he reached the shore, two miles above the proper
landing-place. The canoe was then half full of water. He was
drenched with spray, which was frozen into almost a coat of mail
upon his garments. Shivering with cold, he had to walk three miles
through the forest before he found a cabin at whose fire he could
warm and dry himself. Without any unnecessary delay he pushed on
until he crossed the extreme western frontier line of Virginia, and
entered Sullivan County, Tennessee.
An able-bodied young man like David Crockett, strong, athletic,
willing to work, and knowing how to turn his hand to anything,
could, in the humblest cabin, find employment which would provide
him with board and lodging. He was in no danger of starving. There
was, at that time, but one main path of travel from the East into
the regions of the boundless West.
As David was pressing along this path he came to a little hamlet of
log huts, where he found the brother whom he had left when he
started from home eighteen months before with the drove of cattle.
He remained with him for two or three weeks, probably paying his
expenses by farm labor and hunting. Again he set out for home. The
evening twilight was darkening into night when he caught sight of
his father's humble cabin. Several wagons were standing around,
showing that there must be considerable company in the house.
With not a little embarrassment, he ventured in. It was rather dark.
His mother and sisters were preparing supper at the immense
fireside. Quite a group of teamsters were scattered around the room,
smoking their pipes, and telling their marvellous stories. David,
during his absence of two years, had grown, and changed considerably
in personal appearance. None of the family recognized him. They
generally supposed, as he had been absent so long, that he was dead.
David inquired if he could remain all night. Being answered in the
affirmative, he took a seat in a corner and remained perfectly
silent, gazing upon the familiar scene, and watching the movements
of his father, mother, and sisters. At length supper was ready, and
all took seats at the table. As David came more into the light, one
of his sisters, observing him, was struck with his resemblance to
her lost brother. Fixing her eyes upon him, she, in a moment, rushed
forward and threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming, "Here is my
brother David."
Quite a scene ensued. The returning prodigal was received with as
much affection as could be expected in a family with such
uncultivated hearts and such unrefined habits as were found in the
cabin of John Crockett. Even the stern old man forgot his hickory
switch, and David, much to his relief, found that he should escape
the long-dreaded whipping. Many years after this, when David
Crockett, to his own surprise, and that of the whole nation, found
himself elevated to the position of one of our national legislators,
he wrote:
"But it will be a source of astonishment to many, who reflect that I
am now a member of the American Congress, the most enlightened body
of men in the world, that, at so advanced an age, the age of
fifteen, I did not know the first letter in the book."
By the laws and customs of our land, David was bound to obey his
father and work for him until he was twenty-one years of age. Until
that time, whatever wages he might earn belonged to his father. It
is often an act of great generosity for a hard-working farmer to
release a stout lad of eighteen or nineteen from this obligation,
and "to give him," as it is phrased, "his time."
John Crockett owed a neighbor, Abraham Wilson, thirty-six dollars.
He told David that if he would work for Mr. Wilson until his wages
paid that sum, he would then release him from all his obligations to
his father, and his son might go free. It was a shrewd bargain for
the old man, for he had already learned that David was abundantly
capable of taking care of himself, and that he would come and go
when and where he pleased.
The boy, weary of his wanderings, consented to the arrangement, and
engaged to work for Mr. Wilson for six months, in payment for which,
the note was to be delivered up to his father. It was characteristic
of David that whatever he undertook he engaged in with all his
might. He was a rude, coarse boy. It was scarcely possible, with his
past training, that he should be otherwise. But he was very faithful
in fulfilling his obligations. Though his sense of right and wrong
was very obtuse, he was still disposed to do the right so far as his
uncultivated conscience revealed it to him.
For six months, David worked for Mr. Wilson with the utmost fidelity
and zeal. He then received the note, presented it to his father,
and, before he was sixteen years of age, stood up proudly his own
man. His father had no longer the right to whip him. His father had
no longer the right to call upon him for any service without paying
him for it. And on the other hand, he could no longer look to his
father for food or clothing. This thought gave him no trouble. He
had already taken care of himself for two years, and he felt no more
solicitude in regard to the future than did the buffalo's calf or
the wolf's whelp.
Wilson was a bad man, dissipated and unprincipled. But he had found
David to be so valuable a laborer that he offered him high wages if
he would remain and work for him. It shows a latent, underlying
principle of goodness in David, that he should have refused the
offer. He writes:
"The reason was, it was a place where a heap of bad company met to
drink and gamble; and I wanted to get away from them, for I know'd
very well, if I staid there, I should get a bad name, as nobody
could be respectable that would live there."
About this time a Quaker, somewhat advanced in years, a good, honest
man, by the name of John Kennedy, emigrated from North Carolina, and
selecting his four hundred acres of land about fifteen miles from
John Crockett's, reared a log hut and commenced a clearing. In some
transaction with Crockett he took his neighbor's note for forty
dollars. He chanced to see David, a stout lad of prepossessing
appearance, and proposed that he should work for him for two
shillings a day taking him one week upon trial. At the close of the
week the Quaker expressed himself as highly satisfied with his work,
and offered to pay him with his father's note of forty dollars for
six months' labor on his farm.
David knew full well how ready his father was to give his note, and
how slow he was to pay it. He was fully aware that the note was not
worth, to him, the paper upon which it was written. But he reflected
that the note was an obligation upon his father, that he was very
poor, and his lot in life was hard. It certainly indicated much
innate nobility of nature that this boy, under these circumstances,
should have accepted the offer of the Quaker. But David did this.
For six months he labored assiduously, without the slightest hope of
reward, excepting that he would thus relieve his father, whom he had
no great cause either to respect or love, from the embarrassment of
the debt.
For a whole half-year David toiled upon the farm of the Quaker,
never once during that time visiting his home. At the end of the
term he received his pay for those long months of labor, in a little
piece of rumpled paper, upon which his father had probably made his
mark. It was Saturday evening. The next morning he borrowed a horse
of his employer and set out for a visit home. He was kindly
welcomed. His father knew nothing of the agreement which his son had
made with Mr. Kennedy. As the family were talking together around
the cabin fire, David drew the note from his pocket and presented it
to his father. The old man seemed much troubled. He supposed Mr.
Kennedy had sent it for collection. As usual, he began to make
excuses. He said that he was very sorry that he could not pay it,
that he had met with many misfortunes, that he had no money, and
that he did not know what to do.
David then told his father that he did not hand him the bill for
collection, but that it was a present from him--that he had paid it
in full. It is easy for old and broken-down men to weep. John
Crockett seemed much affected by this generosity of his son, and
David says "he shed a heap of tears." He, however, avowed his
inability to pay anything whatever, upon the note.
David had now worked a year without getting any money for himself.
His clothes were worn out, and altogether he was in a very
dilapidated condition. He went back to the Quaker's, and again
engaged in his service, desiring to earn some money to purchase
clothes. Two months thus passed away. Every ardent, impetuous boy
must have a love adventure. David had his. A very pretty young
Quakeress, of about David's age, came from North Carolina to visit
Mr. Kennedy, who was her uncle. David fell desperately in love with
her. We cannot better describe this adventure than in the unpolished
diction of this illiterate boy. If one would understand this
extraordinary character, it is necessary thus to catch such glimpses
as we can of his inner life. Let this necessity atone for the
unpleasant rudeness of speech. Be it remembered that this
reminiscence was written after David Crockett was a member of
Congress.
"I soon found myself head over heels in love with this girl. I
thought that if all the hills about there were pure chink, and all
belonged to me, I would give them if I could just talk to her as I
wanted to. But I was afraid to begin; for when I would think of
saying anything to her, my heart would begin to flutter like a duck
in a puddle. And if I tried to outdo it and speak, it would get
right smack up in my throat, and choke me like a cold potato. It
bore on my mind in this way, till at last I concluded I must die if
I didn't broach the subject. So I determined to begin and hang on
a-trying to speak, till my heart would get out of my throat one way
or t'other.
"And so one day at it I went, and after several trials I could say a
little. I told her how I loved her; that she was the darling object
of my soul and body, and I must have her, or else I should pine down
to nothing, and just die away with consumption.
"I found my talk was not disagreeable to her. But she was an honest
girl, and didn't want to deceive nobody. She told me she was engaged
to her cousin, a son of the old Quaker. This news was worse to me
than war, pestilence, or famine. But still I know'd I could not help
myself. I saw quick enough my cake was dough; and I tried to cool
off as fast as possible. But I had hardly safety pipes enough, as my
love was so hot as mighty nigh to burst my boilers. But I didn't
press my claims any more, seeing there was no chance to do
anything."
David's grief was very sincere, and continued as long as is usually
the case with disappointed lovers.
David soon began to cherish some slight idea of the deficiency in
his education. He had never been to school but four days; and in
that time he had learned absolutely nothing. A young man, a Quaker,
had opened a school about a mile and a half from Mr. Kennedy's.
David made an arrangement with his employer by which he was to go to
school four days in the week, and work the other two days for his
board. He continued in this way for six months. But it was very
evident that David was not born for a scholar. At the end of that
time he could read a little in the first primer. With difficulty he
could make certain hieroglyphics which looked like his name. He
could also perform simple sums in addition, subtraction, and
multiplication. The mysteries of division he never surmounted.
This was the extent of his education. He left school, and in the
laborious life upon which he entered, never after improved any
opportunity for mental culture. The disappointment which David had
encountered in his love affair, only made him more eager to seek a
new object upon which he might fix his affections. Not far from Mr.
Kennedy's there was the cabin of a settler, where there were two or
three girls. David had occasionally met them. Boy as he was, for he
was not yet eighteen, he suddenly and impetuously set out to see if
he could not pick, from them, one for a wife.
Without delay he made his choice, and made his offer, and was as
promptly accepted as a lover. Though they were both very young, and
neither of them had a dollar, still as those considerations would
not have influenced David in the slightest degree, we know not why
they where not immediately married. Several months of very desperate
and satisfactory courtship passed away, when the time came for the
nuptials of the little Quaker girl, which ceremony was to take place
at the cabin of her uncle David and his "girl" were invited to the
wedding. The scene only inflamed the desires of David to hasten his
marriage-day. He was very importunate in pressing his claims. She
seemed quite reluctant to fix the day, but at last consented; and
says David, "I thought if that day come, I should be the happiest
man in the created world, or in the moon, or anywhere else."
In the mean time David had become very fond of his rifle, and had
raised enough money to buy him one. He was still living with the
Quaker. Game was abundant, and the young hunter often brought in
valuable supplies of animal food. There were frequent
shooting-matches in that region. David, proud of his skill, was fond
of attending them. But his Quaker employer considered them a species
of gambling, which drew together all the idlers and vagrants of the
region, and he could not approve of them.
There was another boy living at that time with the Quaker. They
practised all sorts of deceptions to steal away to the
shooting-matches under pretence that they were engaged in other
things. This boy was quite in love with a sister of David's intended
wife. The staid member of the Society of Friends did not approve of
the rude courting frolics of those times, which frequently occupied
nearly the whole night.
The two boys slept in a garret, in what was called the gable end of
the house. There was a small window in their rough apartment. One
Sunday, when the Quaker and his wife were absent attending a
meeting, the boys cut a long pole, and leaned it up against the side
of the house, as high as the window, but so that it would not
attract any attention. They were as nimble as catamounts, and could
run up and down the pole without the slightest difficulty. They
would go to bed at the usual early hour. As soon as all were quiet,
they would creep from the house, dressed in their best apparel, and
taking the two farm-horses, would mount their backs and ride, as
fast as possible, ten miles through the forest road to where the
girls lived. They were generally expected. After spending all the
hours of the middle of the night in the varied frolics of country
courtship, they would again mount their horses and gallop home,
being especially careful to creep in at their window before the dawn
of day The course of true love seemed for once to be running
smoothly. Saturday came, and the next week, on Thursday, David was
to be married.
It so happened that there was to be a shooting match on Saturday, at
one of the cabins not far from the home of his intended bride. David
made some excuse as to the necessity of going home to prepare for
his wedding, and in the morning set out early, and directed his
steps straight to the shooting-match. Here he was very successful in
his shots, and won about five dollars. In great elation of spirits,
and fully convinced that he was one of the greatest and happiest men
in the world, he pressed on toward the home of his intended bride.
He had walked but a couple of miles, when he reached the cabin of
the girl's uncle. Considering the members of the family already as
his relatives, he stepped in, very patronizingly, to greet them. He
doubted not that they were very proud of the approaching alliance of
their niece with so distinguished a man as himself--a man who had
actually five dollars, in silver, in his pocket. Entering the cabin,
he found a sister of his betrothed there. Instead of greeting him
with the cordiality he expected, she seemed greatly embarrassed.
David had penetration enough to see that something was wrong. The
reception she gave him was not such as he thought a brother-in-law
ought to receive. He made more particular inquiries. The result we
will give in David's language.
"She then burst into tears, and told me that her sister was going to
deceive me; and that she was to be married to another man the next
day. This was as sudden to me as a clap of thunder of a bright
sunshiny day. It was the capstone of all the afflictions I had ever
met with; and it seemed to me that it was more than any human
creature could endure. It struck me perfectly speechless for some
time, and made me feel so weak that I thought I should sink down. I
however recovered from the shock after a little, and rose and
started without any ceremony, or even bidding anybody good-bye. The
young woman followed me out to the gate, and entreated me to go on
to her father's, and said she would go with me.
"She said the young man who was going to marry her sister had got
his license and asked for her. But she assured me that her father
and mother both preferred me to him; and that she had no doubt that
if I would go on I could break off the match. But I found that I
could go no farther. My heart was bruised, and my spirits were
broken down. So I bid her farewell, and turned my lonesome and
miserable steps back again homeward, concluding that I was only born
for hardship, misery, and disappointment. I now began to think that
in making me it was entirely forgotten to make my mate; that I was
born odd, and should always remain so, and that nobody would have
me.
"But all these reflections did not satisfy my mind, for I had no
peace, day nor night, for several weeks. My appetite failed me, and
I grew daily worse and worse. They all thought I was sick; and so I
was. And it was the worst kind of sickness, a sickness of the heart,
and all the tender parts, produced by disappointed love."
For some time David continued in a state of great dejection, a
lovelorn swain of seventeen years. Thus disconsolate, he loved to
roam the forest alone, with his rifle as his only companion,
brooding over his sorrows. The gloom of the forest was congenial to
him, and the excitement of pursuing the game afforded some slight
relief to his agitated spirit. One day, when he had wandered far
from home, he came upon the cabin of a Dutchman with whom he had
formed some previous acquaintance. He had a daughter, who was
exceedingly plain in her personal appearance, but who had a very
active mind, and was a bright, talkative girl.
She had heard of David's misadventure, and rather unfeelingly
rallied him upon his loss. She however endeavored to comfort him by
the assurance that there were as good fish in the sea as had ever
been caught out of it. David did not believe in this doctrine at
all, as applied to his own case, He thought his loss utterly
irretrievable. And in his still high appreciation of himself,
notwithstanding his deep mortification, he thought that the lively
Dutch girl was endeavoring to catch him for her lover. In this,
however, he soon found himself mistaken.
She told him that there was to be a reaping frolic in their
neighborhood in a few days, and that if he would attend it, she
would show him one of the prettiest girls upon whom he ever fixed
his eyes. Difficult as he found it to shut out from his mind his
lost love, upon whom his thoughts were dwelling by day and by night,
he very wisely decided that his best remedy would be found in what
Dr. Chalmers calls "the expulsive power of a new affection;" that
is, that he would try and fall in love with some other girl as soon
as possible. His own language, in describing his feelings at that
time, is certainly very different from that which the philosopher or
the modern novelist would have used, but it is quite characteristic
of the man. The Dutch maiden assured him that the girl who had
deceived him was not to be compared in beauty with the one she would
show to him. He writes:
"I didn't believe a word of all this, for I had thought that such a
piece of flesh and blood as she had never been manufactured, and
never would again. I agreed with her that the little varmint had
treated me so bad that I ought to forget her, and yet I couldn't do
it. I concluded that the best way to accomplish it was to cut out
again, and see if I could find any other that would answer me; and
so I told the Dutch girl that I would be at the reaping, and would
bring as many as I could with me."
David seems at this time to have abandoned all constant industry,
and to be loafing about with his rifle, thus supporting himself with
the game he took. He traversed the still but slightly broken forest
in all directions, carrying to many scattered farm-houses
intelligence of the approaching reaping frolic. He informed the good
Quaker with whom he had worked of his intention to be there. Mr.
Kennedy endeavored to dissuade him. He said that there would be much
bad company there; that there would be drinking and carousing, and
that David had been so good a boy that he should be very sorry to
have him get a bad name.
The curiosity of the impetuous young man was, however, by this time,
too much aroused for any persuasions to hold him back. Shouldering
his rifle, he hastened to the reaping at the appointed day. Upon his
arrival at the place he found a large company already assembled. He
looked around for the pretty girl, but she was nowhere to be seen.
She chanced to be in a shed frolicking with some others of the young
people.
But as David, with his rifle on his shoulder, sauntered around, an
aged Irish woman, full of nerve and volubility, caught sight of him.
She was the mother of the girl, and had been told of the object of
David's visit. He must have appeared very boyish, for he had not yet
entered his eighteenth year, and though very wiry and athletic, he
was of slender frame, and rather small in stature.
The Irish woman hastened to David; lavished upon him compliments
respecting his rosy cheeks, and assured him that she had exactly
such a sweet heart for him as he needed. She did not allow, David to
have any doubt that she would gladly welcome him as the husband of
her daughter.
Pretty soon the young, fresh, blooming, mirthful girl came along;
and David fell in love with her at first sight. Not much formality
of introduction was necessary: each was looking for the other. Both
of the previous loves of the young man were forgotten in an instant.
He devoted himself with the utmost assiduity, to the little Irish
girl. He was soon dancing with her. After a very vigorous "double
shuffle," as they were seated side by side on a bench intensely
talking, for David Crockett was never at a loss for words, the
mother came up, and, in her wonderfully frank mode of match-making,
jocosely addressed him as her son-in-law.
Even David's imperturbable self-possession was disturbed by this
assailment. Still he was much pleased to find both mother and
daughter so favorably disposed toward him. The rustic frolicking
continued nearly all night. In the morning, David, in a very happy
frame of mind, returned to the Quaker's, and in anticipation of soon
setting up farming for himself, engaged to work for him for six
months for a low-priced horse.
