A tense hush—similar to those intervals of electrical stillness that separate the resoundings of a thunderstorm—fell upon the room. Though only of the briefest duration, it afforded me a moment to muster my thoughts.
That the figure looming before me was indeed the celebrated Colonel Crodkett was a fact I had already surmised. Who other than this personage would have taken such evident offense at my critique of his published memoir?—a book almost entirely devoid of either literary merit or narrative interest. A tiresome chronicle of Crockett’s feats as hunter, fighter, and frontier orator, this volume conveyed an impression of its author as little more than an unlettered ruffian, whose proudest achievement was the slaughter of four dozen members of the species Ursus americanus in a single month.
And yet, the defects of this book had by no means diminished its appeal to the vast and vulgar reading public. Thus, Crockett’s autobiography was to be found in quantity among the stock of every bookseller in the country, while works of infinitely greater value languished in total obscurity—a circumstance that could hardly fail to chafe at the heart of any serious writer compelled to pursue his high calling under harsh pecuniary conditions.
I hasten to add that, while my own situation was badly straitened, I had in no way permitted personal sentiment to color my opinions. Adhering to the most rigorous standards, my review had been utterly untainted with those envious feelings to which a less objective critic may have naturally succumbed.
At all events, it was not the unwarranted success of Crockett’s book which now engaged my attention but rather the derisive remark which its author had just directed at me. By implication at least, he had likened me to a common insect—a “lowdown cricket,” in his quaint phraseology. This gibe, I immediately saw, was a somewhat comical linguistic corruption—though whether a deliberate pun or a crude mispronunciation I would not have ventured to say.
Sitting erect in my chair, I unblinkingly met Crockett’s impudent gaze. “I see that you have taken umbrage at my assessment of your autobiographical narrative, Colonel Crockett,” said I. “That, I suppose, is the natural response of any writer whose efforts fail to elicit the esteem of those who render judgment. If the purpose of your visit is to discover the aesthetic principles upon which my opinion was based, I will be happy to accommodate you.”
Here I paused briefly so as to emphasize my point. “On my part, however, I must first demand that you explain your characterization of me as a cricket, a creature only slightly removed in unsightliness from that most odious of pests, the domestic cockroach. Perhaps, as I suspect, you intended to say critic?”
My visitor’s brow wrinkled in evident befuddlement as I spoke. When I had finished, he puckered his lips and exhaled a soundless whistle.
“I’ll be hanged if you don’t sound like a gilt-edged, hand-tooled, seven-dollar Friendship’s Offering,” he said. “Just listenin’ to you spout off makes a feller’s brain feel as wrung out as yesterday’s laundry. As for me, I may not know all them highfalutin’ words, but I say what I mean. Call yerself a critic if you like, but to my way o’ thinkin’, you and your kind is nothin’ but a bunch o’ varminous crickets—useless little critters that ain’t got nothin’ better to do than pester other folks with a lot of bothersome noise.”
This insult, unendurable in itself, was rendered even more galling by the burst of hilarity it elicited from Crockett’s juvenile admirers. Indignation flared within my breast. I arose from my chair, stepped to the front of my writing table, and stationed myself directly before the audacious frontiersman. Standing in such close proximity to him, I was struck anew by the aura of raw physical power which seemed to emanate from his person like an effusion of eau de cologne. Drawing myself up to my full height, I addressed him thusly:
“Perhaps the contemplative surroundings in which you presently find me have created the impression of a nature unsuited to manly exertions. If so, you have badly misjudged me. I am the proud offshoot of a race long-steeped in military traditions. The Marquis de Lafayette himself paid public homage to the heroic service performed by my grandfather, General David Poe, in the cause of American freedom. As for myself, my records in the United States Army and the military academy at West Point stand as eloquent testimony to my mettle. While it is true that pugnacity is somewhat foreign to my temperament, I will not shun a fight when my honor is involved. Indeed, I may say of myself, as the Immortal Bard has the melancholy Dane say, that ‘though I am not splenetive and rash, yet have I something in me dangerous which let thy wisdom fear!’”
This salvo produced a most remarkable effect upon Crockett, whose eyes appeared to acquire a dull glaze as I spoke, as if the sheer force of my oratory had staggered him. He looked at me open-mouthed for a long moment before shaking his head and replying: “I don’t reckon I know of no immortal bird nor any melancholy dame. Here’s what I do know, Cricket. Someone saw that review of yourn and sent it to me in an envelope. Whoever done it was too yaller to set down his name, but I got my suspicions.
“Now, you may not know it, shut away here in this hen-coop of yourn, but I got me a passel o’ inimies in the guv’ment these days who’re jest lookin’ for any way to make me look foolish. The Great Man hisself is tryin’ to see to it that I don’t get re-elected on account of he can’t bring me to heel, try as he might. But Davy Crockett is no man’s man ’cept his own. I will never fetch and carry at the whistle of Andy Jackson nor anyone else.
“Now, that there review of yourn is just the sort o’ shot-and-powder my inimies are hopin’ will bring me down. Callin’ me a buffoon and an ignoramus and whatnot. So here’s what I got to say to you, Crickett: You speak prime, all right. Why, when it comes to dealin’ words, I can’t cut and shuffle with you nohow. But that book of mine is as true and honest as I knowed how to make it. It may be poor on grammar and spellin’. But while you was learnin’ how to dot your i’s and cross your t’s, I was fighting injuns in the Creek War alongside Ol’ Hickory hisself, afore he got so all-fired high and mighty.”
The sincerity of this utterance could not be doubted, though its point had so far eluded me, I propounded to Crockett the question of why he had troubled to seek me out.
“Why, that’s as plain as the curls on a buffalo’s hide,” he replied. “I expect you to write out an apology and see that it gets printed in that high-toned magazine.”
“Impossible!” I cried. “Your request would compel me to violate the most sacred principles of my profession. The critic, like the poet, must set aside every consideration other than an absolute and unwavering fidelity to the immutable laws of artistic truth.”
“Dang your hide, Cricket!” Crockett exclaimed. “Can’t you never say a straight word?”
“Here is my word, Colonel Crockett. I cannot—will not—do as you request.”
Crockett’s cheeks ballooned outward. He blew out a long sigh, shrugged his massive shoulders, and said: “Then I don’t suppose there’s no way around it. You and me must fight, Cricket.”
At this pronouncement, a joyous exclamation arose from Crockett’s juvenile audience as if from a single throat. “Fight!” they cried. “Mr. Poe and Davy Crockett are going to have a fight!”
Patting the air with both hands, Crockett silenced the boys. “No, no, young ’uns. I don’t mean to tussle with a man in his own home. That ain’t Davy Crockett’s style.”
Turning his intense gaze back at me, he said, “Cricket, I’m givin’ you ’til tomorrow morning to chaw on this matter. You’ll find me stayin’ at Mrs. Macready’s boardin’ house over yonder on Howard Street. I’ll expect to see you there afore breakfast time with your answer. It’s either an apology or an old-fashioned knock-down-and-drag-out fight atween you ’n’ me.”
Thus far I had tolerated Crockett’s brazen behavior out of that ingrained sense of courtesy endemic to the well-bred Southerner. To be so insultingly addressed within the precincts of my own dwelling place, however, was a provocation I could no longer endure. Throwing back my shoulders, I replied to Crockett’s bullying ultimatum with the only answer it deserved: I screwed my lips into a withering sneer.
Pretending to ignore me, Crockett reached inside his vest pocket and consulted his timepiece, “By crackers! If I don’t high-tail it out of here, I’m goin’ to miss that supper that the young Whigs is throwin’ me over to Barnum’s Hotel.”
“But Davy,” a childish voice protested. It was that of little Jimmy Johnston. “You ain’t told us none of your adventures.”
Crockett emitted an indulgent chuckle. “Tell you what, lad. Why don’t you and the rest of your chums stroll with me for a spell and I’ll treat you to a by-gum slam-whanger of a story.”
“Hurray!” came the answering shout.
“Let me see now,” Crockett commenced, stroking his clean-shaven chin. “You boys ever hear ’bout the time I saved the whole livin’ airth from scorchifyin’ destruction by wringin’ the tail off of Halley’s comet?”
He cast me a farewell look that seemed to say, “I will see you in the morning, Mr. Cricket.” Then, with his small band of rapt listeners in tow, he swivelled on his heels and departed through my wide-flung chamber door.