Lone Star Nation (26 page)

Crockett's growing fame didn't endear him to some in the Jackson camp. James Knox Polk was younger than Crockett (by nine years), better educated than Crockett (who wasn't?), more refined than Crockett (ditto), and more ambitious than Crockett. This last trait seems to have been what set him against Crockett, for though they both entered Tennessee politics as Jacksonians, Polk evinced a desire to make himself the heir of Old Hickory (now that Houston was out of the way). Polk was also craftier than Crockett, and on some controversial issues—school funding, the tariff—he isolated Crockett from the mainstream of Jacksonian sentiment. “Rely upon it,” Polk told a fellow Jackson loyalist, by way of attacking Crockett, “he can be and has been operated upon by our enemies. We can't trust him an inch.”

Crockett won reelection to Congress in 1829 (this was before the states regularized their electoral calendars and settled on even-year elections), but he felt the ground being cut from beneath his feet. “To General Jackson I am a firm and undeviating friend,” he protested. “I have fought under his command, and am proud to own that he has been my commander. I have loved him, and in the sincerity of my heart I say that I still love
him
. But to be compelled to love every one who for purposes of self-aggrandizement pretends to rally around the ‘Jackson standard' is what I can never submit to. The people of this country, like the humble boatsmen on the Mississippi, ought to look out for breakers!” (Crockett knew about the Mississippi breakers, having nearly drowned when high water ran a flatboat of his into an anchored log raft, sweeping him and the boat under the raft. He barely escaped, losing every stitch of clothing and large patches of skin in the process.)

But it was Crockett who got slapped by the political waves. The more distance that developed between him and the president's advisers, the more attractive he became to Jackson's avowed enemies, who were busy forming the Whig party. Crockett innocently accepted their support and in doing so made himself even more of a target of the Jacksonians. Nearly every measure he supported—on land sales, Indian policy, highways—met resistance from the administration. Eventually Crockett had to admit that the problem wasn't merely Polk but Jackson himself. When the president endorsed a rival in Crockett's 1831 reelection campaign, the rift between the two old comrades in arms burst into the open. Crockett accused Jackson of abandoning his own beliefs, saying, “I have not left the principles which led me to support General Jackson; he has left them and
me
; and I will not surrender my independence to follow his
new opinions
, taught by interested and selfish advisers, and which may again be remolded under the influence of passion and cunning.” On another occasion Crockett indignantly declared, “I have not got a collar round my neck marked ‘My dog,' with the name of Andrew Jackson on it. Because I would not take the collar round my neck, I was hurled from the party.” When defeat became all but certain, Crockett asserted, “I would rather be beaten and be a man than to be elected and be a little puppy dog. . . . I would rather be politically buried than to be hypocritically immortalized.” (The pleasure of the Polk faction at Crockett's downfall was captured in a remark by one of them on the eve of the balloting: “I think Crockett is going to be beat at this election. . . . I hope the name of David, the mighty man in the River Country, will no longer disgrace the Western District in the National Legislature.”)

Crockett employed his freedom from politics to hunt bears (successfully, as always) and try to work down his debts (unsuccessfully, as usual). He cleared a tract of land along the Obion River in western Tennessee and built a cabin and outbuildings and planted corn and fruit trees. He also cultivated friends among the Whigs, who encouraged him to attempt to take back his congressional seat in 1833. He made the race and, running as an explicit anti-Jacksonian at a time when Jackson's hard line against states' rights had dented his popularity in Tennessee, emerged triumphant.

The Whigs knew an opportunity when they saw it. Having lost the 1832 presidential election to Jackson with the elegant Henry Clay at the top of the ticket, they sought a candidate for 1836 who could tap the popular desire for democratic authenticity. The vogue of the West had given rise to numerous books and plays, starting with the works of Washington Irving and James Fenimore Cooper and extending to
The Lion of the West,
a stage production that toured the country and featured a character unmistakably based on Crockett. Biographies of Crockett, unauthorized and romanticized, appeared in bookshops and were immediately snatched up. Observing the large sales and the royalties they produced for their authors, Crockett decided to write his own biography.

The memoir struck a balance between the homespun and the serious—as befit a frontiersman being bruited for president. Crockett apologized for presuming on readers' patience by writing the book at all, but he explained that “obscure as I am, my name is making considerable deal of fuss in the world.” He didn't apologize for his lack of proper grammar, but simply said, “I hadn't time to learn it, and make no pretensions to it.” On this point he linked himself to the early Jackson even as he distanced himself from the current version. “While the critics were learning grammar, and learning to spell, I, and ‘Doctor Jackson, L.L.D.' [Jackson had just received an honorary degree from Harvard] were fighting in the wars. . . . Big men have more important matters to attend to than crossing their
t
's and dotting their
i
's, and such like small things.” Crockett recounted his bear hunts (“At the crack of my gun, here he came tumbling down; and at the moment he touched the ground, I heard one of my best dogs cry out. I took my tomahawk in one hand, and my big butcher-knife in the other, and run up within four or five paces of him, at which he let my dog go and fixed his eyes on me. I got back in all sorts of a hurry, for I know'd if he got hold of me, he would hug me altogether too close for comfort. I went to my gun and hastily loaded her again, and shot him the third time, which killed him good”). He applied frontier aphorisms and figures of speech to political life, thereby making them part of the larger lexicon (“Root, hog, or die”; “My heart would begin to flutter like a duck in a puddle”; and, most famously, “Be sure you're always right—
then go ahead!
”). He described a stint as justice of the peace and his preference for natural law over statute (“I gave my decisions on the principles of common justice and honesty between man and man, and relied on natural born sense, and not law-learning to guide me, for I had never read a page in a law book in all my life”). He confessed his ignorance of the workings of government at the time of his first campaign for office (“I had never read even a newspaper in my life, or any thing else on the subject”). He defended his split from Jackson (“I was willing to go with General Jackson in every thing that I believed was honest and right; but further than this I wouldn't go for him, or any other man in the whole creation. . . . I would sooner be honestly and politically damned than hypocritically immortalized”).

The book was an instant success, running through several printings in its first year and inspiring numerous pirated editions (which prevented Crockett from realizing his royalty hopes). Crockett became even more of a celebrity, and even more of a threat to the Jacksonians.

C h a p t e r   1 0

The General Is Friendly

M
ary Holley hadn't seen her cousin Stephen Austin for twenty-five years, and she might not have seen him for twenty-five more had her husband not suddenly died, leaving her to puzzle out how to support herself and her young son. She knew that Stephen was in Texas, as was her brother Henry. She also knew that many Americans were going to Texas and many more were thinking about going, despite the Mexican efforts to curb the immigration. Being a writer by inclination, and as enterprising in her own way as any of the empresarios, she determined to make some money out of Texas, too. She would travel there and keep an account of her journey, and then publish a book that would serve simultaneously as a travelogue for stay-at-homes whose interest in Texas was merely vicarious and as an immigrants' guide for persons preparing to undertake the journey themselves. Hers wouldn't be the only such account; reports from Texas were already appearing in modest numbers. But in her pitch to publishers she noted two distinctions working in her favor: her tie to Austin and her feminine perspective. The former gave her—and would give her readers—special access to the most famous of the empresarios; the latter would appeal to women who, as Texas became more populated and civilized, formed an ever-growing part of the immigrant stream. Her pitch succeeded, and she found a publisher. In the autumn of 1831 she set off for Texas with a boatload of passengers from New Orleans.

“They were all bound, like myself, to
the land of promise,
” she wrote. “A better assortment of professions and character, for an infant colony, could not have been selected: an editor of a gazette from Michigan, a civil engineer from Kentucky, a trader from Missouri with his bride along and an outfit of dry goods, a genteel good-looking widow on a visit to her son, with a suitable proportion of the working class.” Seasickness struck the group, sending editor, engineer, working class, and author running for the rail. For two days she couldn't keep anything in her stomach except fruit juice. “I would advise all who take this voyage to carry a liberal supply of oranges with them,” she wrote upon reaching land.

At the mouth of the Brazos the ship encountered one of the military posts established under the law of April 6, 1830, to control immigration. “The officer of the garrison boarded us to examine our passports, a ceremony the Mexicans are very tenacious of from their known jealousy of foreigners. He was a young man, dark and rather handsome, in a neat Mexican uniform. . . . He very politely addressed our captain in a few words of English, probably his whole vocabulary; while the latter displayed to best advantage, in reply, his whole stock of Spanish.” The documents of most of the passengers were produced, inspected, and approved. Mary Holley's visa, however, was in her luggage. The officer let it go. “With courtly complaisance and gallant reliance upon a lady's word, he waived the ceremony of examination and saved us the trouble of searching our trunks.”

The voyage continued up the Brazos to the town of Brazoria, some thirty river miles from the mouth, at the head of tidewater. The town was only three years old and showed the callowness of youth. “One street stretches along the bank of the Brazos, and one parallel with it farther back, while other streets, with the trees still standing, are laid out to intersect these at right angles, to be cleared at some future day as the wants of the citizens may require. Its arrangements, as well as its wealth and greatness, are all prospective.”

Fifty families made the town their home, after the frontier fashion. “Some families, recently arrived, are obliged to camp out, from the impracticability of getting other accommodation. The place, therefore, has a busy and prosperous air, which it is always agreeable to notice, but has not yet advanced beyond the wants of first necessity. There is neither cabinet-maker, tailor, hatter, shoe-maker, nor any other mechanic, except carpenters.” There were no hotels, either, but there was one boardinghouse. “The proprietors of it are from New York and know how things should be, and have intelligence and good sense enough to make the best of circumstances they cannot control.”

There was much about Texas beyond the control of immigrants, which was why they should concentrate on those things they
could
control. Weather worried many who had heard of the Texas heat. Mary Holley counseled: “The best month to arrive in is October. The first impression at that time is delightful, as well as just, and there is less inconvenience and trouble at that time than at any other season. It is also the most favourable season on account of health. The change to the hot months of the succeeding year is then gradual. Those persons who come from the northern states or from Europe, in the spring and summer, experience too sudden a change and are always more or less affected by it.”

Immigrants must come prepared with provisions, knowledge, and proper attitude. This applied particularly to women.

House-keepers should bring with them all indispensable articles for household use, together with as much common clothing (other clothing is not wanted) for themselves and their children, as they conveniently can. Ladies in particular should remember that in a new country they cannot get things made at any moment, as in an old one, and that they will be sufficiently busy the first two years, in arranging such things as they have, without occupying themselves in obtaining more. It should also be done as a matter of economy. . . .

Those who
must
have a feather-bed had better bring it, for it would take too long to make one; and though the air swarms with live geese, a feather-bed could not be got for love or money. Every body should bring pillows and bed linen. Mattresses, such as are used universally in Louisiana—and they are very comfortable—are made of the moss which hangs on almost every tree. They cost nothing but the case and the trouble of preparing the moss. The case should be brought. Domestic checks are best, being cheap and light, and sufficiently strong. The moss is prepared by burying it in the earth until it is partially rotted. It is then washed very clean, dried and picked, when it is fit for use. These mattresses should be made very thick, and those who like a warmer bed in winter can put some layers of wool, well carded, upon the moss, taking care to
keep this side up.

Every emigrant should bring mosquito bars. . . . They are indispensable in the summer season, and are made of a thin species of muslin, manufactured for the purpose. Furniture, such as chairs and bureaus, can be brought in separate pieces and put together, cheaper and better, after arrival, than they can be purchased here, if purchased at all. But it must be recollected that very few articles of this sort are required, where houses are small and building expensive. . . . Tables are made by the house carpenter, which answer the purpose very well, where nobody has better and the chief concern is to get something to put upon them. The maxim here is, nothing for show but all for use.

Immigrants would discover a society appealing in its simplicity and egalitarianism. “The people are universally kind and hospitable. . . . Every body's house is open, and table spread, to accommodate the traveler. There are no poor people here, and none rich—that is, none who have much money.” Immigrants received equal amounts of land on arrival, regardless of circumstances back home. “And if they do not continue equal, it is for want of good management on the one part, or superior industry and sagacity on the other. All are happy, because busy; and none meddle with the affairs of their neighbors, because they have enough to do to take care of their own.” Even some persons who might least have expected to thrive in Texas did so. “Delicate ladies find they can be useful, and need not be vain. . . . Privations become pleasures; people grow ingenious in overcoming difficulties. They discover in themselves powers they did not suspect themselves of possessing.”

Texas wasn't for everyone. “Those persons . . . who are established in comfort and competency, with an ordinary portion of domestic happiness; who have never been far from home, and are excessively attached to personal ease; who shrink from hardship and danger, and those who, being accustomed to a regular routine of prescribed employment in a city, know not how to act on emergencies or adapt themselves to all sorts of circumstances, had better stay where they are.”

For many others, though, Texas afforded opportunities they wouldn't find elsewhere. “He whose hopes of rising to independence in life by honourable exertion have been blasted by disappointment; whose ambition has been thwarted by untoward circumstances; whose spirit, though depressed, is not discouraged; who longs only for some ample field on which to lay out his strength; who does not hanker after society nor sigh for the vanished illusions of life; who has a fund of resources within himself, and a heart to trust in God and his own exertions; who is not peculiarly sensitive to petty inconveniences but can bear privations and make sacrifices of personal comfort—such a person will do well to settle accounts at home and begin life anew in Texas.”

Stephen Austin appreciated Mary Holley's spreading the word about Texas, but she meant more to him than good publicity. He hoped that with her husband dead and her brother in Texas, he could persuade her to move to his colony. He had had a crush on her as a youth, and the fond memories of that time returned when he heard she was coming for a visit. To Austin, Mary Holley represented grace and beauty and refinement—qualities often absent on the frontier. Austin was no elitist, and he never spoke ill of the plain folks who formed the majority in his colony, but he was a college man who knew something of literature and the arts, and he hoped to attract at least a few kindred spirits to his corner of the wilderness.

Their first meeting in Texas increased his estimation of Mary Holley. “She is a very superior woman, and the most agreeable company I have met with for many years,” he wrote his sister, Emily. Austin spent ten days with Mary, at her brother Henry's house above Brazoria. She inquired about the origins of the colony; Austin recounted the trials of the early days. She asked about Mexican politics; he explained the tortuous course of the revolution. She wanted to learn about the Indians; he told her of the Comanches and Karankawas and Wacos and Tonkawas. All this she included in the draft of the book she was writing; she read sections for his comment and correction. She taught Austin and others in Henry's household a song she had composed, called the “Brazos Boat Song,” which became a family anthem.

Austin was enchanted. “Mrs. H. is a
divine
woman,” he told James Perry. As she departed east to finish her book and consider whether to relocate permanently, Austin bade her the warmest farewell. “There is a pleasure in meeting with congenial feelings and tastes and sympathies, that few—very few—in this cold and selfish world can appreciate and enjoy,” he said. “It is therefore like the diamond to the miser: invaluable.” Austin allowed himself to dream of life in Texas when she returned, and others like her followed. “We will then arrange our cottages—rural, comfortable, and splendid—the splendor of nature's simplicity. Gardens and rosy bowers, and ever-verdant groves, and music, books, and intellectual amusements can all be ours; and that confidence and community of feeling and tastes which none but congenial minds can ever know; all these, without excessive wealth, we can have.”

Between the dream and the reality lay a long journey—literally for Austin. In the spring of 1833 he departed for Mexico City, to deliver to the national government the petition of the San Felipe convention calling for statehood for Texas separate from Coahuila. The season was a bad one for cholera, which Austin encountered at the Rio Grande. Unsettling symptoms laid him low there, and though they passed, they prompted him to choose a sea voyage south, via Veracruz, rather than an overland trek, to avoid further exposure. The passage reminded him why he hated boats. “I had a wretched trip,” he wrote. “
One month
from Matamoros to Vera Cruz in a little schooner—ten days on short allowance of water—none but salt provisions—and sea sick all the time.”