Passage to Natchez

by Cameron Judd

  “Good day to you, ma’am.”

  “Good day.”

  He turned back the way he had come. She called to him: “Mr. Tyler, for what it’s worth to you, my husband’s trip to New Orleans has been put off until early next year.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s that. Good-bye, ma’am.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Tyler.”

  Clardy secretly visited Deerfield’s office the next day, driven by curiosity about whether Celinda had told him the truth about the New Orleans journey.

  She had. “I’m sorry,” Japheth said. “I would have been happy to take you with me, but if you want to get there sooner, it would be best if you found some other means of transport. It shouldn’t be particularly difficult, given all the traffic from this city to that one.”

  “Perhaps so, Mr. Deerfield,” he said. “I thank you in any case.”

  “Will you be going to New Orleans soon, then?”

  “I don’t know just yet. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll sniff around here a few days more.”

  “Well, if you do end up still being around here and still needing passage when my trip comes up next year, my invitation still stands.”

  Clardy saw nothing to gain in telling him about his conversation with Celinda the day before. The point was moot, anyway; he couldn’t imagine still being in Natchez all the way into the next year.

  He left the office with the intent of rounding up some alternative passage to New Orleans, or perhaps just mounting his horse and riding there.

  It happened that on that same day, however, he heard a rumor that a man who might be James Hiram had been seen recently on up the Boatman’s Trail a few miles. Hardly daring to hope that this was true, Clardy ventured out onto the trail again, still looking, still hoping. Days of searching passed, and he became convinced that this rumor, too, was false.

  He returned to Natchez and suddenly became ill. All the searching, worrying, and living in poor conditions had lowered his resistance to the surfeit of sickly miasmas that moved like zephyrs through the squallid quarters of Natchez-under-the-Hill. For two weeks he wallowed in misery in his bed, trying to throw off his sickness. When he emerged on the other side of it, he was weak and thin, very changed physically, but changed in a more important and fundamental way mentally.

  His spirit for the quest was broken. He had lost the will to continue. The prospect of going to New Orleans no longer appealed to him. There, in such a large, complex city, he would face only more difficulty and frustration. Besides, wasn’t Isaac Ford asking about for Thias there already? What was the use of him going as well?

  Clardy began to grow more like the Clardy Tyler of youth. He began drinking too much, distracting himself with the illicit pleasures of Natchez-under-the-Hill. He ceased to think much about Thias at all, even stopped wondering why Ford was gone so long. What did any of it matter? All he would allow himself to care about at the moment was finding whatever entertainment and pleasure he could to see him through from morning till night.

  Weeks went on like this, summer fading into fall. Isaac Ford still did not return, and Clardy, having grown cynical, concluded that his old partner had abandoned him. He told himself that he did not care. To the devil with Isaac Ford, Thias, all of it. He plunged deeper into his debaucheries, deeper into a lingering despair whose very existence he declined to acknowledge.

  He was drinking in one of the worst riverside dives one night when a voice out on the street roused him. Staggering out, he found a crowd gathering around an odd-looking man who wore Indian clothing, moccasins, a tall pipe hat, and a cross around his neck. He was standing on a cask and waving a Bible.

  “The end is coming!” he bellowed. “Years away yet, but it comes! Prepare yourself! There are visions being seen, dreams being had, prophecies being made … the earth will shake, the rivers will run backward, and the end will come! Prepare!”

  Clardy turned away. Another river country babbler, out spinning verbal illusions. Clardy had no desire to become acquainted with any chimeras beyond those generated by the contents of a cheap bottle of whiskey. He went back to his dive and did not see the odd prophet again. But the memory of him lingered. He had made for an odd sight, and his words, though inane in Clardy’s view, had been spoken with such force and conviction that they had branded themselves quite effectively into his drunken mind.

  In October an event occurred that stirred up lots of talk in Natchez. One Elisha Winters had been robbed while on his way up to Natchez from New Orleans, and had narrowly escaped with his life. He had continued on to Natchez, very shaken, and while there, happened to see the two men who had robbed him. After Winters identified them to the authorities, they were arrested and jailed; their names were James May and John Setton.

  Clardy greeted news of May’s arrest with the old youthful cynicism that had resurrected within him. He wasn’t surprised May had turned out to be criminal; he had felt strong doubts about the fellow when he’d met him. Sometimes it seemed to Clardy that there was no one in the world who was truly decent and respectable. It was all a sham, a veneer. Even Isaac Ford had turned out to be a deserter. Clardy believed that nothing could surprise him anymore.

  But he was surprised when some days later he learned that May and Setton had been released by the authorities. The pair had claimed to know the whereabouts of the infamous Mason of the Woods; they bargained for their release on the pledge that, if freed, they would go find and kill Mason, and this time bring in proof of it.

  Clardy laughed. What sort of fools governed the law in this territory? May and Setton had duped them, and they were too dense to see it. Had not the governor himself recently sent out federal soldiers to find Mason, all to no avail? Why anyone would believe that two common criminals would do better was beyond Clardy’s sardonic comprehension.

  Japheth Deerfield was in Natchez-under-the-Hill, having just seen off a client who, through some hard work on Japheth’s part, had narrowly escaped conviction on a mayhem charge. He was walking along the waterfront when a gathering crowd caught his attention. The lawyer joined the throng and saw a canoe bearing two men riding into the levee. The man in the prow was grinning broadly and holding up a big ball of bluish clay, tightly packed, and shouting: “See here the head of Mason of the Woods! We’ve kilt Mason of the Woods!”

  Japheth gaped, astonished, when he recognized the man as John Setton, whom he had chanced to see while Setton was imprisoned in Natchez back in October for the Elisha Winters robbery. The other man in the canoe was his companion, James May.

  “You’re a-lying!” someone challenged. “Break open that ball and show us the head!”

  “Not here,” Setton replied. “We’ll do it before the eyes of the law, and no sooner.”

  “There stands a lawyer!” someone called, pointing at Japheth, who was immediately grasped by several callused hands and swept through the crowd and up to Setton.

  “You’re a lawyer?” Setton asked him.

  “I am.” Japheth sniffed; there was a muffled but pungent stench of decay lingering here. He blanched a little. Indeed there was something of flesh and bone inside that great ball of blue clay. “Did I hear you say, sir, that you have the head of Samuel Mason there?”

  “Indeed I do, and we’ve come to claim our reward.” Setton lifted the ball as if to smash it down and break it open.

  “Wait!” Japheth said, putting out a hand to stop him. “Not here. Come up to the courthouse with me. Governor Claiborne is in town today.”

  “The governor!” the red-haired Setton exclaimed. His left eye twitched spasmodically. Japheth was coldly amused. Evidently this man wasn’t comfortable with the idea of appearing before such an exalted representative of the law. No surprise there. Setton had the ratty look of a criminal if ever Japheth had seen one, and he had seen plenty.

  “Why, we’ll gladly see the governor,” May interjected. “Come on, John. Let’s go get our reward.”

  “I don’t care for governors,” Setton said.

  “You ain’t ne
ver even seen a governor, John,” May replied. “It’s a stroke of good fortune for us. The governor can put the reward right into our hands.”

  In a great parade led by Japheth, the crowd marched through Natchez-under-the-Hill and up to the finer part of town. Setton now carried the clay ball, May at his side, grinning and joking with all around him.

  Clardy emerged from his boardinghouse just as the processional went by. Because of its size, he couldn’t make out what the hubbub was about, but out of curiosity he fell in behind.

  “What’s happening?” he asked a man.

  “There’s two men come in, claiming they’ve got the head of Sam Mason in a ball of clay,” the man replied. “They’re taking it up to the governor to bust it open.”

  “Who are the men?”

  “One’s named Setton. The other is James May.”

  Even in his current jaded condition Clardy had to be impressed. May and Setton had actually done the task they had been freed to do. He could hardly believe it—and wouldn’t, until he saw for himself that they really had brought in the head of Samuel Mason. He pushed his way up through the throng, trying to move toward the front and get a look at the pair. All he could see, however, was their backs. He noticed Japheth Deerfield beside them and wondered how he had come to be involved in this.

  They reached the courthouse, May and Setton going inside with Japheth. The crowd was restrained from entering by some of the soldiers who were about the place, guarding it because of the governor’s presence. Clardy was disappointed; he hadn’t gotten a clear look either at the purported clay-covered head or at May and Setton, either. He wished to meet May and see if May remembered him from their earlier ride together into Greenville. Clardy was catching the spirit of the crowd, which was beginning to laud the pair as great heroes for having brought down so vile a scourge as Mason.

  The crowd grew while May and Setton were inside; word of what was going on was spreading rapidly through Natchez and new curious folk were joining the throng. Clardy looked about to see if Celinda Deerfield might show up among the newcomers. He did not see her. He hadn’t really expected to see her; she did not seem the type to be attracted by such lurid spectacles as this one promised to be.

  A few minutes later the courthouse doors opened and May emerged, still holding the ball of clay. Several soldiers accompanied him, and after them came various courthouse officials and magistrates, followed by Japheth Deerfield. Then came a distinguished-looking man Clardy assumed was Governor William Claiborne. Clardy had the impression that someone was missing … Setton. Where was the man named Setton?

  Clardy had just begun looking for Setton, curious about him, when the door opened a final time and Setton emerged. Clardy took one look at him and was jolted. His throat went dry and he could do nothing but stare in astonishment.

  His eyes were still locked on Setton when May broke open the clay ball and revealed the hideous trophy. A loud gasp rose from the crowd, followed by shouts, cheers, babbles of rapid conversation.

  “That’s Mason! That’s him!”

  “Mason! They warn’t lying, b’jiminy!”

  “They’ve kilt him! They’ve kilt the scourge hisself!”

  Clardy hardly heard the exclamations of recognition of the severed head. The recognition he was experiencing was even more significant and overwhelming. And then the smiling Setton, looking over the crowd, caught sight of Clardy’s face, and from the expression that came over him, Clardy knew he had just been recognized in turn.

  CHAPTER 36

  On down the street a lone rider entered town and rode toward the nearest inn and around to the stable. He dismounted and led the horse inside. A black stableman approached.

  “Put him up for me; give him some grain and rub him down,” the horseman instructed. “I’m going into the inn to get myself a room.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What’s all that going on at the courthouse?”

  “They say there’s two men what have brought in the head of Mason of the Woods, sir.”

  “Is that right? I’ll be. Hope it’s true.” He sounded tired.

  He stepped out onto the street a moment and watched the crowd before heading into the inn. He could hear its excited babble from where he was.

  The innkeeper met him inside. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I’d like a room.”

  “We do have one available, sir. How long will you be with us?”

  “I don’t know. Say, is it true what your stable boy said about Samuel Mason having been killed?”

  “They’re saying it’s true. You could go up to the courthouse and find out for yourself, if you want.”

  “I believe I will.”

  “How should I list your name on my register, sir?”

  “My name is McCracken. Sweeney McCracken.”

  “McCracken. Yes sir. You are alone?”

  McCracken’s eyes showed a flash of sadness. “Yes. I am alone.”

  “Good to have you with us, Mr. McCracken. Have you any luggage?”

  “What luggage I had was stole from me north of New Orleans.”

  “Stole, you say? Merciful heaven! Were you hurt?”

  “Not badly.” He paused. “But I lost two slaves, both shot down like dogs. And a good friend. He was … never mind it. Ain’t in the spirit to talk about it right now.”

  McCracken left the inn and headed down the street, his eye on the crowd. As he drew closer he was stunned to see a man on the courthouse steps holding up what looked like a withering, decaying human head, severed halfway down the neck. It was a revolting but eye-holding sight, and distracted him several moments before he took a closer look at the man who held it. When he did look, he stopped in his tracks, muttering an oath beneath his breath.

  He held still as a statue for a couple of moments. Then he noticed and recognized a second man near the one who held the head aloft, and anger boiled up inside him.

  “Them men there!” McCracken yelled, startling those close to him and getting the attention of most everyone else in the crowd, and that of the two men on the porch who were the obvious center of all the commotion. “Them men are the very two who robbed me near New Orleans in September! Lay hands on them—don’t let them run!”

  What followed was fast and, from McCracken’s viewpoint, confusing. The man who had been holding up the head saw McCracken, blanched, laid the head down and trotted down off the step as if to leave. The other of the pair, a red-haired, small-framed man, followed his partner after glancing first at McCracken, then over at another man on the other side of the crowd, then at McCracken again. He had eyes full of fear. McCracken noticed that the other man who had been sharing the attention of the red-haired man was none other than Clardy Tyler and Clardy was now pushing his way up toward the front of the crowd. Meanwhile, an important-looking man—the territorial governor himself, McCracken now saw—spoke to a couple of soldiers near him; they leaped down and apprehended the fleeing men in the midst of the sudden hubbub.

  McCracken pushed through the crowd but was cut off. Clardy Tyler, on the other hand, had just made it out of the rabble and jumped onto the step. He pointed at the red-haired man, who now wriggled in the grip of a big soldier. “That man there is not named Setton!” he declared loudly. “That man is Wiley Harpe!”

  McCracken managed to make it through the crowd, which was now in a great roaring tumult because of what Clardy had just said. Everyone there knew of the infamous murderer Wiley Harpe and his late, vile brother. “Clardy!” McCracken called. “Clardy Tyler! It’s me!”

  “McCracken? Is that you?”

  “Aye, it is. Clardy, I must tell you—”

  Nothing could be told just now, though. May and his partner were being hustled back up to the courthouse. Governor Claiborne put out a hand and touched Clardy’s shoulder. “Sir, can you prove what you say about this man’s identity?”

  “I can!” someone in the crowd shouted. He emerged and came up before the glowering, fox-haired man. “My
name is Bowman. Some years ago I had a row with Wiley Harpe in Knoxville and stabbed him beneath the left breast. Examine him and see the scar for yourself!”

  Wiley Harpe cursed and writhed, but it did him no good. Within moments his shirt was torn open, and just as Bowman had said, there was a clearly visible scar.

  “They say Little Harpe had two toes growed together like one!” a former Kentuckian in the crowd contributed. An examination of Harpe’s foot proved it so.

  “I told you it was him,” Clardy said.

  “You could have believed him right off!” someone from Under-the-Hill bellowed. “He’s the Harpe hunter hisself! He was there when Big Harpe’s head was cut from his shoulders! Ain’t that so, Tyler?”

  Clardy looked Wiley in the eye. “It’s so. I was there. And Wiley Harpe wasn’t. He had run off. Seen to his own safety while leaving his brother to die, and his women to be took captive.”

  “Go to hell, you son of a whose!” Wiley Harpe said venomously.

  “No, that’s your journey, soon to commence,” Clardy replied. He resisted a strong urge to spit in Harpe’s face. He turned to McCracken, took his arm and pulled him aside. “McCracken, you just got back from New Orleans?”

  “Aye, Clardy.”

  “And these men here, Harpe and May, they robbed you? Is that what I heard you say?”

  “It is. But it was worse than that, my boy. I grieve to tell you of it. Isaac Ford is dead. They killed him. Shot him like a dog. It was Harpe who done the act. I got Isaac back to New Orleans, nursed him for weeks on end, but he didn’t survive. I’m fearsome sorry to tell you. He was a good man.”

  “Yes,” Clardy said. His eyes began to flood. “He was a good man. Best I’ve ever known. The very best.” He held to his composure with great effort, walked back to Wiley Harpe and looked into the weasely face. “I’ve seen one Harpe die. Now I’ll see the second die, too. They’ll hang you, Harpe. And when they do, I’ll be there to watch you swing. And may heaven have more mercy on you than you’ve shown to God knows how many others, every one of them better folk than you. Especially the last one—the finest man you ever killed, and the last who’ll ever die by your hand. It’ll be your turn now. Your turn to die. Your turn to face the judgment.”