The Death of Davy Crockett and Other Reasons to Visit Disneyland



Davy Crockett's final monents as depicted in story and song---dawn on March 6, 1836

 

     Everyone knows that Davy Crockett died in the courtyard of the Alamo, swinging his Kentucky long rifle like a club, surrounded by sixteen dead Mexicans.  That’s basically the story Joe, William B. Travis’ slave, told after he was spared by Santa Anna.  Susannah Dickinson, the teenage mother who was also spared, said she saw Crockett’s body on the floor at the door of the chapel.  Not enough difference to quibble about.  Enter Walt Disney, who un-earthed the story,  identified the market, wrote a catchy ditty, and cornered the market for coon-skin caps.

     In 1837, Ramon Martinez Caro, Santa Anna’s personal secretary during the Texas campaign, published his memoirs which contained an interesting paragraph mentioning Davy Crockett.  According to Caro, after the battle, General Castrillon brought five prisoners to Santa Anna and asked him to spare them, saying he had guaranteed their safety.  One of the prisoners was identified as the famous ex-congressman, David Crockett.  Santa Anna, incensed that his “no quarter” instructions had been ignored, ordered the immediate execution of the entire group, and turned his back.  The five were fallen upon by soldiers and murdered on the spot.

     In June of 1836, a letter reportedly written by William H. Attree, was published in the New York Courier and Enquirer, telling essentially the same story.  The story was picked up and published in several newspapers of the time, among them the Frankfort Commonwealth of Kentucky.  Attree was an eastern reporter of some note, who was visiting Galveston Island in the weeks immediately following the Texas Revolution.  He attributed the story to a Mexican officer being held in a prisoner of war camp there.

      In 1960, a graduate student working on his thesis discovered a letter from one Sergeant George Dolson to his brother, written in July of 1836 and published in a Detroit newspaper in September of that year.  Sergeant Dolson was a Texas army interpreter at Camp Travis, a prisoner of war camp on Galveston Island, and interviewed Mexican prisoners being held there.  He related a story of the death of Crockett, told him by an unnamed Mexican officer who supposedly witnessed the event.   In Dolson’s version, General Castrillon brings six prisoners to Santa Anna, but outside that detail, the stories are identical.

     The eastern reporter and Sergeant Dolson may have interviewed the same Mexican officer, or two different officers may have recounted the same event.   According to all reports, there were dozens of witnesses.  When added to these stories, the account given by twenty-eight year old Jose Enrique De La Pena, written in his diary during the battle for Texas in 1836, makes a compelling case.  Lt. De La Pena tells the same story, except in his version, Castrillon delivers seven prisoners to Santa Anna, not five or six.

     De La Pena came to Texas with Santa Anna’s army and distinguished himself in combat at the Alamo.  He kept a daily journal through the whole Texas Revolution and was truthful, but less than kind, about his military superiors..  He blamed Santa Anna for the debacle at San Jacinto and Filasola for the disastrous retreat across the muddy Gulf Coast.  He accused Sesma and Gaona of everything from avarice to cowardice.   

      De La Pena, fiercely proud of his Mexican heritage, mistrusted foreign generals, mercenaries hired to shore up the leadership of Mexico’s army.  He praised every action of General Urrea, one of the few Mexican generals in the army, and constantly found fault with Filasola, an Italian.  

     His journal may have been published in 1838 or 1839, but, if so, was likely quashed by officials high in the Mexican government.  In 1955, a hundred and seventeen years later, De La Pena’s diary was published in Mexico at the height of the Davy Crockett frenzy created by Walt Disney.  While much of the two-hundred-page document was accepted as fact, the two paragraphs concerning Crockett’s demise were considered questionable.  For this reason, the whole work was brushed aside by many historians.    

      When De La Pena’s journal was translated into English by Carmen Perry in 1975, all hell broke loose among serious students of Texas History.  One side held that Crockett died fighting in the battle and any other tale is akin to blasphemy.  Another group believed that the manner of Crockett’s death was not important, because it was honorable—a nod to Hillary Clinton’s “What difference does it make?” defense.

     The original story, based upon two “eyewitness” accounts, leaves ample room for doubt.  Joe, Travis’s slave, was known to tell whatever story he felt his audience wanted to hear, and he disappeared (ran away) not long after the war.  Susannah Dickinson’s recollections grew more vivid and outlandish as time passed while she sank deeper into alcoholism and debauchery.  

      Doubt was cast on the De La Pena narrative because he was mistaken in his account of the death of Travis.  He told of a handsome, blond Texian officer that he assumed was Travis,  killed while bravely rallying his troops on the south wall.  According to Joe, the dark-haired Travis was killed on the north wall by a random shot to the head in the first moments of the battle.

      The debate over De La Pena’s diary continues to rage. Detractors claim it is a forgery, but cannot say who forged it, or why, or even when it was done.  The high rag content paper used in the document was tested and found to have been made in Lisbon between 1825 and 1832.  Historians agree that this Lisbon paper was used by the army in Mexico in 1836, and De La Pena had access to it.

     Mature, level-headed, intelligent scholars are at odds over what happened to Davy Crockett.  Four different accounts, from at least three different eye-witness sources, tell essentially the same story.  Learned individuals frantically search for details that differ, or accuse long-dead writers of making up bald-faced lies for less than apparent reasons, or claim forgery on hundred-year-old paper.  Carmen Perry was castigated by some of her peers for simply translating De La Pena’s work.  When the paper from the diary was proven genuine, the opposition quickly assumed the position that even if the diary was authentic, there was no reason to believe it was accurate.  Historians want to be precise.  Sometimes.

      De La Pena wrote a rough draft, his diary, with entries faithfully scribbled every day during his sojourn in Texas.  When he returned to Mexico, he revised and expanded his notes and provided conclusions for many of the questions he raised.  His announced intention to publish this work in 1838 was not met with universal enthusiasm.  After spending some time in prison, he was mysteriously murdered one night on a dark street in Mexico City.  Historians think it was 1841, but, to be precise, it might have happened in 1842.

A Lubbock Boy's Carriage ride in New York City

  

A cabriolet similar to the one Charlotte and I rode through Central Park--different horse, different driver, but Springtime in New York.

                                                                                    

     Charlotte and I walked in the warm spring sunshine across Fifth Avenue from the Plaza toward the lone Hansom Cab waiting at the curb on East 59^th Street.  Charlotte had spent the day behind the Red Door at the Elizabeth Arden Salon and looked fantastic in a form-fitting silk dress.  I finished my meeting early so we could ride a horse-drawn carriage through Central Park before we went to dinner.  After her full treatment at the spa—mud bath, massage, make-up, the works—I wanted to show off the knock-out-good-looking mother of my children.

     “Say there, young feller, how much for a ride around Central Park?  We’re tourists up here and want to see ever’ thang we can.  You charge by the mile or by the hour?”  I asked, with my best Texas drawl.  I discovered that Texans were given preferential treatment by most New Yorkers. Either they liked our accents or thought we were all very rich.

     “We charge by time, fifteen dollars for every fifteen minutes or portion thereof, or fifty dollars per hour.  I can get you through the park in thirty minutes,” the twenty-something, clean-cut young man answered with his memorized spiel.  He was a good-looking kid, wearing starched khaki trousers, white oxford-cloth button-down shirt open at the neck, spit-shined cordovan penny loafers and a completely out-of-place old, thick, dark green top hat.

     “Hell son, I didn’t want to buy that horse and wagon, just rent it for a while.  You reckon we could work out a better deal—what if I rented that rig for, say, two hours?” 

      Charlotte flashed a frown at me.  She hated it when I haggled.  It embarrassed her--she thought it degrading.

      The young man was sharp—he saw through my poor-boy act and knew we were going to make a deal.  He grinned.  “Oh, I can’t do that, sir.  It’s a hundred dollars for two hours and the company won’t let me charge any less.  I can do this—I get off at six-thirty, and I usually lose a little time waiting for a fare, so I’ll drive you around the city until then for a hundred bucks.  By the way, my name is Ronnie Fletcher, and the horse is named Dick.  He-he.  Funny name for a horse.”  He stuck out his hand, knowing if I shook it we had a deal.  I laughed and we shook hands.

     “I’m Jim McLaughlin, Ronnie, just call me Mac.   Meet my wife, Charlotte.”  I turned to her.  “Jump in, Sugar.  Ron here is gonna show us the town.  He’s all heart.  Gave us a big discount.”

       Ronnie laughed as I helped Charlotte into the forward-facing seat and climbed in next to her.  He climbed up to the driver’s platform and grinned again as I looked at my watch.  It was four-twenty-two.  The best I could tell, the generous young man was giving us eight free minutes.

     The carriage was technically not a Hansom Cab, but a one horse, four-wheeled cabriolet now common in New York City, painted white too long ago, with a high driver’s seat up high in front and two red vinyl passenger seats facing each other in the lower back section.  The dappled gray horse, Dick, was old, well-groomed, and apparently well-fed, with sleepy, but intelligent, eyes.  He welcomed us by taking a two-gallon leak on the pavement.

    “Are you from Texas?” Ron asked, as he leaned down toward us from his elevated seat.  “I’ll be going to Texas tomorrow.”

     “As a matter of fact, we’re from Houston.  Why you going to Texas, Ronnie?”

     “I have a job down there, with Texas Instruments, in Sugarland.  I graduated from New York University at 11:00 this morning, and start to work in Texas on Monday.  I have to pack the rest of my things tonight after work.  I’m working this one last shift because I need the money.”

     “Hell, this calls for a celebration.  If you can find a liquor store, I’ll buy the Champagne.  It’s not like they can fire you for drinking on the job at this late date.”

     Ronnie clucked at the horse and tugged the reins.  Dick did a u-turn, threading his way back across Fifth Avenue, between the Plaza and Central Park.  When I raised an eyebrow, Ron leaned down and winked.  “The cops don’t bother us much—they think we’re quaint.”  

     Dick didn’t need any help—stopped at the red light and clopped forward when it turned green.   Ronnie leaned down again.  In a conspiratory tone, he said, “I’ve already been celebrating with some friends since graduation.  I know a liquor store right around the corner on Avenue of the Americas.  We’ll stop there.”

     Ole Dick halted the carriage in front of the store and I went inside, bought two bottles of cold Champagne and a package of plastic cups.  I popped the cork on one of the bottles, passed around the cups, poured the bubbly, and we toasted Texas Instruments.

     As we rode through Central Park, Ronnie turned around to face us and let Ole Dick worry about the traffic.  “Ole Dick don’t need my help, unless we’re going somewhere off the beaten path.  I call him Big Dick, he-he.  Funny name for a horse. He knows the city better than I do.  If I don’t watch him, he’ll just naturally head back to the stables.  He’s ready to quit and get to the feed bag any time.”

     We toasted New York University. We toasted Texas. We toasted Sam Houston. We toasted the Tavern on the Green as we passed.  We toasted the Dakota, where John Lennon was shot.  We toasted Yoko Ono.  We stopped and bought more Champagne.  We toasted John Hinckley.  I pointed out that Hinckley shot Reagan, not Lennon, but no one cared.   We toasted Jody Foster.

     It was dark when we passed the Shubert Theater on 44th, and I noticed it was almost seven o’clock.  “You think we ought to head to the house, Ronnie-Boy?  You want to join Charlotte and me for dinner?  We’d love to have you.  We’re going to a little place on 55^th street called L‘escargot.  Charlotte likes to eat snails.”

     “Oh my no, it’s late.  I better get back to the stable.”  Ronnie, slurring his speech, had slowed down considerably from his earlier pace.  He seemed to be in a stupor.  He faced forward now and was not talking much.  We headed toward Fifth Avenue, but traffic was heavy and Ole Dick stopped behind a row of cars waiting to turn left.

     As we waited, I said something to Charlotte and looked up in time to see Ronnie keel over sideways and fall off the high seat down into the street.  His green top hat crumpled under his head as it hit the pavement.  He sprawled there, in the middle of the street, out cold.

     I jumped out of the carriage and knelt beside Ronnie.  A burley fellow in a leather jacket and a yellow cab hat appeared and squatted next to us.  With a Flatbush accent straight from the movies, he said, “Did youse see dat sumbitch?  He did a high dive from way up dere.  Youse see dat sumbitch?  Is he all rite?  Damn. Youse tink he had a heart attack or sumthin?” 

    “Naw, he didn’t have a heart attack.  He’s just drunk.  I don’t think he broke anything.”  I checked Ronnie’s limbs as I spoke.  The hat protected his head when he landed, and so far as I could tell, he didn’t have a scratch.

     “Dat ‘splains it.  If he’d a been sober, he’d a broke his damn fool neck.  Drunks are just natchally loose.  Damn. Did youse see dat sumbitch?  Did a timber job from way up dere.”    

     I shook Ronnie and he opened his eyes, blinked momentarily, and shut them.  “Come on Ron, let us help you up—are you ok?  Break anything?”

    The Brooklyn cabbie helped me get Ronnie to his feet and guide him to the carriage.  Ron stumbled into the vinyl seat, next to the empty champagne bottles, and slumped down.  His eyes opened and he looked up with a crooked grin.  “I think I ought to get at least a 9.7 for that dive,” he said and closed his eyes.  Ronnie was fine.

     Charlotte was not in her seat.  After a moment of panic, I saw her, standing prettily next to Ole Dick, holding the bridle.  She took care of the horse while we attended Ronnie.

     “How youse gonna get dat horse back home?  What’s gonna happen to dat guy?  Youse tink he’s gonna be ok?”  The cabbie, a gruff New Yorker, was sympathetic and  genuinely concerned.  Except for the accent, he could have been from West Texas.

     “Ever thangs gonna be fine.  I’ll drive the horse back to the hotel and Charlotte will take care of Ronnie.  Thanks for the help.  You reckon you ought to shut the door on your cab before someone knocks it off?”

      The cabbie suddenly realized his cab was idling with the front door wide open in the middle of 44^th street.  I climbed up to the driver’s platform and Charlotte eased into the seat next to Ronnie.  When she settled, I popped the reins and Dick started toward the Plaza.

     Ole Dick eased up to the curb on 59^th street, almost exactly where he’d answered nature’s call earlier.  I shook Ronnie as Charlotte stepped out of the carriage.  Ronnie was snoring and not about to wake up.  I folded two hundred dollar bills around one of my business cards and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.  “You ok, Ron?  I put some money in your pocket—you ok?”

     Ronnie stirred, patted his shirt pocket, returned to the fetal position and resumed snoring.  I slapped Ole Dick, he-he, on the butt and he clomped off toward the wagon yard.

    Charlotte and I walked the four blocks to L‘escargot and enjoyed icy cold Plymouth Gin Martinis and escargot sizzling in garlic butter, then a hunk of tenderloin smothered in Marchand de Vin sauce.  I just love New York.

View of Centrak Park looking north over the buildings from about 55th Street