Passage to Natchez

by Cameron Judd

  No answer. Celinda felt puzzled, then vaguely worried, and suddenly it was as if ice had touched the back of her neck. Intuition screamed a frenzied warning. The figure in the dark approached, the outline now dimly seen, and suddenly she knew.…

  “Oh, God!” she exclaimed, facing McKee. “What have you done? That’s Jim Horton out there! He’s paid you to bring me to him!”

  “Don’t I know it, girly!” McKee laughed and grabbed her, pinning her arms to her sides and dragging her away from the boat. She struggled and was about to scream, but he put a knife to her throat. “Hush it, girly!” he snapped. “No call for noise!”

  “Let me go!” She almost whispered the plea, fearing to defy him fully with a scream. The mere speaking motions of her throat were enough to make the knife tip prick her painfully. She felt silent.

  She shifted her eyes and watched Horton’s dimly outlined figure approaching on the bank. Apparently seeing the situation, he loped forward eagerly.

  “She’s a scrapper, ain’t she!” Horton said, sounding a touch uncertain as he took in a dimly discemable vision of McKee clasping Celinda to him with a knife at her neck.

  “Aye, she is, the little shrew!” McKee replied. He gave a sudden Oof! and a curse as Celinda’s heel kicked his shin. She had decided she feared Horton even more than McKee’s blade. McKee didn’t cut her, but pushed her away and down. She reeled and fell back into the skiff. For a second she lay stunned, then grappled for the oars. McKee was far too fast, on her in a second. He pinned her down, swung his right hand around past his left shoulder and backhanded her across the right jaw, a stunning blow. “I’ll cut ye open, girly, if ye kick me again!” he threatened.

  “Don’t hurt her!” Horton demanded. “I didn’t pay you to bring her to me only to have you knife her!”

  “The strumpet kicked me!” McKee answered. “She kicks once, I hit. Twice, I cut. Ye hear that, girly? Ye going to be a good and dear girly now and keep them feet still?”

  Celinda wanted to cry but refused to do so. Her mind was spinning, her jaw aching. “Where is Queen?”

  “Shut up,” McKee barked.

  Horton said, “Queen? What’s Queen got to do with this? You didn’t let that hag see you, did you?”

  “’Course not. Queen’s on the boat. She saw nary a thing.”

  Celinda said, “She’s not on the boat—her bed was empty!”

  Horton pressed the question: “What’s all this? McKee, did you do something to Queen Fine?”

  McKee paused, breathing through his teeth, swore beneath his breath and said, “Aye, I did. I killed the fat old cow and slid her corpse quiet and peaceful as you please into the river. She put me in the river once, now I’ve did the same for her, and there she can stay forevermore.”

  The news stabbed Celinda with no less pain than if McKee had used his knife. She went limp, absorbing it. Horton swore and said, “You’ve murdered her? Curse your soul, man, I didn’t pay for no murder—just for the girl! That’s all!”

  “Well, now ye have your girly. And the killing of Queen, that warn’t for your sake in no case, Horton. That was my own doing, for my own reasons. Queen shamed me, and I’ll abide no shaming.”

  Celinda suddenly sobbed aloud, which seemed to infuriate McKee, who turned to her and spat, “Hush! I despise a crying girly worse than a pox.” Then to Horton: “I’ve done my work. Now I want the rest of my pay.”

  Horton waved his arms in a gesture of wild disbelief. “You’ve made me a party to murder! God above, man, do you want me and you both to hang? Our bargain is off.”

  “Ain’t nobody going to hang because there ain’t nobody knows ’cept us, and ain’t none of us going to tell. She was naught but an old river harlot! What is she to make a fuss over? And if ye welch our bargain, I’ll kill this girly ye want so bad right here and now.” He pressed the knife against Celinda’s throat.

  Celinda prayed: God help me, help me now. Reach down and help me, because this is too terrible to abide. I am weak and in danger and Queen is dead. God help me, please.

  “My money, Horton!” McKee demanded again. “Now!”

  “It’s … it ain’t here.”

  “What? Ain’t here? Then—”

  “Don’t get your bowels in an uproar, man. It’s yonder. On down the shore that way, where I left my pack. Come with me and I’ll pay you there.”

  McKee grabbed Celinda’s arm and roughly yanked her up. “Come on, girly. Let’s take a walk with Mr. Junebug.”

  “Leave her,” Horton said. “I don’t want her trying to run away while we’re doing our dealing.”

  “All the more reason to take her. We can watch her long as she’s in hand.”

  “No! I want her left here. We’ll tie her up.”

  “Hell, why waste the time? Pay me and be done with it! What trick are ye up to man?”

  “Trying to get you paid. That’s all.” Horton’s voice was strained and oddly high-pitched.

  Celinda had already pieced together the likely facts. While being rowed ashore, Horton had arranged to pay McKee to kidnap her and bring her to him, and had given him a little money in advance with a promise to pay more when the job was done. But Horton didn’t really have more money. In his frantic eagerness to repossess her, he had made a bargain he couldn’t keep, and the sure result would be an infuriated McKee who would probably murder them both, as he had Queen.

  She did not expect McKee would agree to tie and leave her here, nor did she really understand why Horton was urging that course so strongly. She feared McKee would perceive that Horton had cheated him and retaliate on the spot. So she prayed even more fervently, meanwhile bracing herself for the thrust of his blade. Oh God, save me, oh God, save me …

  McKee’s next words stunned her. “Very well, if ye have to have it that way. But ye’d best pay me quick, and no tricks. I want to be far from here before morning, in case them on the boat find Queen afloating come daylight. I’ll hold her. Ye tie.”

  Though relieved that McKee had acceded to Horton’s direction, Celinda felt obliged to struggle against them, unwilling to acquiesce to scoundrels. Despite her flailings, she was tied hand and foot within two minutes. McKee then gleefully added an unexpected torment to her situation: he wadded his dirty kerchief, crusted with dried sweat and rheum, and bound it into her mouth. Its taste made her want to retch. “That’ll keep ye good and quiet, eh? Good girly!”

  The men moved off into the darkness together. Celinda strained, pulled at her ropes, and found they would not give. If they would not, then perhaps her own flesh would. Bitting down on the gagging kerchief, she then straightened her right hand and pulled as hard as possible. She felt skin abrading, the pain intense. Blood flowed warmly out onto her fingers and palms. Tears burned her eyes. She was obliged to quit pulling, but only for a moment. Painful as it was, she had to free her hands. It was her only hope, because she felt instinctively sure that if she fell into Jim Horton’s clutches again, this time there would be no escape. He had said he loved her. He would never let her go. He would die himself, or see her dead, rather than let her escape him.

  Closing her eyes, she steeled herself, bit down again on the foul cloth in her mouth and gave a long, mighty, twisting pull at the ropes cutting into her wrists, struggling against them for her sole hope of life and escape, wild, pleading prayers ringing in her mind as she tried not to cry out in the self-inflicted pain of her struggle.

  Jim Horton’s heart pounded like a drum as his mind raced. McKee walked close beside him, still carrying his knife and muttering threats about what would happen if he was cheated. Horton faced the worst dilemma of his life. He had pledged to pay McKee a substantial amount when he brought in Celinda, but he had no money at all left to pay. He cursed himself for a fool for having made an impossible promise. Yet he knew he couldn’t have helped himself. All he had thought about while McKee was rowing him ashore earlier was the fact that Celinda was slipping away from him. His proposal had been made in desperation so great it had
precluded him from thinking clearly about what he was saying.

  He reached beneath his coat and put his hand to his own knife. It was cold and hard; his fingers trembled upon it. Could he do what might be required? Could he kill McKee? He had never killed anyone before. And unlike McKee, he was no fighter. But he would have to do his best. He had figured it would come to this; his reason for leaving Celinda back at the skiff was to keep her from having to witness the death that would surely come of this: McKee’s, or his. As rough and selfish as Jim Horton’s brand of love was, it still bore a tinge of protectiveness for the object of his affections. And even more for himself: he knew that Celinda would never accept him if she saw him commit a murder.

  He stumbled on his own pack, having reached it sooner than anticipated. McKee held up the knife and said, “Here we are, Junebug, and there’s your bag. Now out with the money.”

  “I … uh …”

  “Ye got no more money, eh, Junebug? So I had figured.”

  “I’ve got it, right in here.” He knelt and fumbled with the pack with one hand, the other still beneath his coat, gripping his knife.

  “What ye got your hand on ’neath your coat, Junebug?”

  “I … nothing …” He stood and pulled out the knife, waving it at McKee. “This is what I’ve got.”

  “Aye, I figured as much from ye! I figured as much!” He lunged forward and tried to put the knife into Horton’s chest.

  Horton dodged back, taking only a small nick. He yelled and turned to run. McKee grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Horton shoved in the opposite direction, knocking McKee down. Then he ran back inland.

  McKee was after him in moments. Horton entered a grove of trees. Here the darkness was heavy. Dodging behind a tree, he stopped, holding his breath. McKee ran past, felt more than seen.

  “Where ye be, damn your eyes!” McKee called, stopping a few feet away. “Are ye a coward as well as a cheat?”

  Horton felt like he would faint at any moment. His heart hammered so hard it hurt. He let out his breath and drew in another—and McKee must have heard it, because a moment later he roared and came right at him.

  Horton screamed in mortal terror, shoved his knife out like a sword straight in front of him, gripped in both hands, and waited to die.

  He was unaware of the moments immediately thereafter despite many later attempts to reconstruct them. When his senses returned, he found himself kneeling on the ground, panting like a dog, his knife gone. All was silent. Hearing a quiet groan and a rattling hiss right beside him, he gasped, jumped up and backed away until he hit a tree. Silence again.

  “McKee?”

  No response.

  “McKee, where are you?”

  Quiet lingered. He heard the whisper of the river, then his own nervous giggle as hope sprang to life.

  Horton’s trembling legs grew weak and he sank to his knees again. He felt about for his knife, crawling forward, until his left hand touched something warm and fleshy. McKee’s arm. The arm did not move. Horton grasped the wrist and felt for the beat of a pulse. Nothing.

  Another giggle boiled up. He felt further, running his hand across McKee’s unmoving torso. Wet warmth touched his fingers and he lifted them to his nose. Blood. He poked about some more and found his knife, sticking out of McKee’s chest, buried to the grip in his heart.

  Horton collapsed, sucking in air, drinking in the most welcome realization of his life: he was alive and McKee was dead! By pure fortune he had killed a man who was ten times his better at fighting. He had killed him and survived, and Celinda awaited back at the skiff on the shore.

  When his strength had returned sufficiently, he debouched and left McKee’s corpse behind him in the dark grove. The dim vision of the broad river in the night made him smile; had he seen his face at that moment he would have noted how pixilated was his own smile. He paused a few moments, stumbled forward to retrieve his pack, and headed along the shore back to where Celinda awaited.

  The skiff was gone when he got there. Gone! He dropped his pack again and looked wildly around. “Celinda …”

  Weakening again, he dropped to his hands and knees and found her ropes. He picked them up and felt blood on them. She had wriggled out of them, taken the skiff.…

  She was gone. She had escaped him. He stood paralyzed, astonished.

  He yelled, “Celinda! Celinda!” His voice carried across the river. A few moments later he heard Lex Dunworth’s voice yelling back from the flatboat somewhere out there in the water. “Junebug! Is that you!”

  He rose, knowing that even now the absence of Celinda, McKee, and Queen was being detected. An impulse to run struck him, simultaneous with a much less sensible urge to dive into the river and swim out in search of the skiff Celinda had taken. But he couldn’t swim.

  Tears erupted and streamed down his face. He blubbered and cried, whispered Celinda’s name, and turned away. He heard new yells from the flatboat, distant but amplified by the water, and knew that realizations that could endanger him were occurring on that boat even then.

  Blinded by night and tears, he picked up his pack, turned inland and ran away from the river and into the forest, not knowing where he was going and not thinking about it at all. His mind was fully occupied by the terrible fact that she had gotten away from him, really gotten away, and he had little hope of finding her again.

  Out on the dark water, Celinda gripped the skiff’s oars with hands slickened by her own blood. Her wrists, abraded very deeply, burned as if aflame, but the tears on her face were not the product of pain, as they had been initially, nor even of the grief over Queen Fine’s unjust death, which had roused a second jag of sobbing once the pain-crying was done and she had gotten well away from shore and into the river’s current.

  She was crying now out of joy. A pure, holy, soul-filling joy that she had found, or which perhaps had found her, when she realized that at last she was truly free. Free! She believed it only with difficulty. She was away from the flatboat, away from Ajax McKee, and most of all, away from Jim Horton, whose voice she had heard crying out her name across the dark water as she rowed away. She wondered what had happened to McKee. Had Horton killed him? It seemed to her that she had heard noises of struggle even as she made her escape.

  She raised her eyes heavenward and thanked her creator for having heard her prayer. Never mind that she had nearly scraped the flesh from her wrists and hands in gaining her freedom, or that her feet were still bound and would remain so until she, had put many miles between herself and the hell from which she had fled. In a skiff, she did not need the use of her feet, only her arms and an iron will to keep on rowing. Celinda was grateful to be alive. Life lay stretched before her like the river that swept her along. She had no food, no money, no companions … but it did not matter. She had life, freedom, and hope.

  She rowed recklessly at first, thinking more of gaining distance than of the sawyers, planters, and floating river debris that could damage the skiff. At length she tired, her emotions settled, and common sense took hold. She slowed her rowing and kept watch for possible impediments. She found none.

  The sun was tinging the eastern horizon a red-pink, rising light rendering up a surreal chiaroscuro of banks, bluffs, and riparian woodlands, when she saw a small, wooded island ahead, high-banked all around except for one upsloping shore of gravel and sand. She rowed toward it. Her joy at freedom remained, but tempered somewhat by the realization that Horton, if he survived the fight that must have occurred between him and McKee, could have followed the shoreline on foot … might even have found some sort of floating craft and followed her on water! There was a chilling thought indeed. Threatened now by the rising daylight, she rowed fast to the island, laboriously pulled the skiff ashore, and hid it as best she could with brush, doing all this on the hop, in that her feet were still bound.

  She went into the brush, out of sight, and worked loose the bonds around her ankles. Her feet hurt and tingled as a fresh supply of blood raced into them
; she removed her shoes, rubbed her toes until they felt normal, then put the shoes on again. Rising, she walked to the center of the island and found a tiny pool beside a flat stone. Tasting the water, she found it pure and cool, and drank deeply. Hunger rumbled her stomach, but there was no hope of food. She opted for rest instead, curling up on a pile of leaves beneath an overhanging low branch.

  Sleep was dreamless, delicious, restful beyond any sleep Celinda had experienced since her ordeal began. When she awakened in the afternoon, she was confused only a moment, then remembered her escape and was flooded again with joy. Thank you, God.

  She heard voices out on the river and stiffened. Rising, she crept to the top of one of the bluffs overlooking the river and hid among the brush there, peering out onto the water.

  As she had thought, the voice was Dunworth’s. The flatboat was passing by the island—Thank heaven it was not stopping!—and the men of the diminished crew were talking among themselves. Celinda could not understand what was said, but she heard the word “Queen” very distinctly. That made her squint to see if by some miracle Queen was on the boat and alive despite McKee’s claim to have murdered her. Wildly hoping, Celinda looked over the flatboat from end to end, marveling at the fact that she was close enough to toss a stone onto it while those aboard knew nothing of it. The boat floated on past, and on the rear of it Celinda saw a sight that made her cast down her eyes and feel black sorrow.

  Queen was aboard, but not alive. Her already bloating corpse lay on the boat, uncovered, her gray and sodden face turned up toward the sky. They must have found her floating and fished her out. Celinda could not imagine why they had done so unless Dunworth intended to bury his old friend properly somewhere alongside the river. She hoped so. Queen deserved a good burial, not to go back to the elements in a murky river. She owed Queen a great deal. Watching the flatboat go by, she vowed to herself never to forget her.