For two years Davy remained at the Bean’s Creek home, where a girl baby was added to his family. Then came a turning point in his career――the death of Polly Crockett. At the age of about twenty-seven, the little wife whom Davy had loved, as he says, “almost enough to eat her,” passed into the far unknown. She had fulfilled the duties of the true woman, and brought her children into the world and cared for them while their father fought back the terror of the scalping-knife and tomahawk. The year 1817 came in as the first in which the armies of the world were not to cut each others’ throats, or do battle to the death. The phantom of Napoleon had risen to confound the pampered sovereigns of the world, and to lead to bloody graves the youth and strength of Europe. Out of the temporary tyranny of the Little Corporal had come the Louisiana Purchase, that was to change the history of our own country. Twenty-eight years of war was past, and Napoleon was now quarrelling with his jailer at St. Helena! At least, the dethroned Emperor could remember with satisfaction his words after he had sold the Louisiana territory to the United States: “I have given England a rival who, sooner or later, will humble her pride.” His prophecy was coming true. Endless caravans of prairie schooners were wending their way to the West, and on a single turnpike fifteen thousand wagons paid toll in 1817. In Pittsburg there were less than ten thousand people, and Chicago was yet unknown. Everywhere in the valleys of the great rivers, and out upon the rolling plains from whence their waters came, the log cabin or the sod-house arose as if by magic. A single room, a door with latch and string, and perhaps a window of paper rubbed with oil, were what the settler pictured in his dreams of a future home. The first steamboat upon the Mississippi, at St. Louis, was a harbinger of the new dispensation, the era of steam. The spirit of progress let no man rest, and from each new Indian purchase to the next, the pioneer went on, unsatisfied. Davy Crockett was now thirty-one, a “rough backwoodsman,” unable to write, but strong and brave. His brother and his wife had come to live with Davy, and to help in caring for his two boys and the baby, but he felt the need of a real home. At last he married the widow of a volunteer killed in the Creek War. Between them they had five children to begin housekeeping with. Davy’s second marriage was a wise step, and he never regretted it. Having thus provided himself with a helpmeet, he was at liberty to indulge the restless strain in his blood by an excursion into Alabama, with three neighbors. Why he did so is not of record, but he had been farming for nearly three years, and evidently wanted a change.