Passage to Natchez

by Cameron Judd

  “‘Morning, missy.”

  The voice startled her. She turned and saw a man so dingy in skin tone and dress that he blended almost invisibly into the equally dingy alleyway in which he stood leaning against a wall. He grinned at her reaction.

  “I skeered you.”

  “Sir, well … yes.”

  “Am I skeery to look at?”

  “I just didn’t realize you were there.”

  “You’re a fine-looking woman. Finer looking than most that come down under the hill.” His grin disturbed her.

  “I’m looking for someone … a relative of a friend.”

  “That right? Who?”

  “Beatrice Sullivan.”

  He rolled his eyes. “That crazy old harlot? What would you want with her?”

  Celinda was beginning to grow offended; it was no business of this man what she wanted with Beatrice. But she was afraid to let her feelings show, in case he grew offended in turn. She wouldn’t want this kind of man angry at her.

  What’s wrong with you? The chiding voice was her own, speaking inside her head. Have you become soft and weak? There was a time when you held your own very well among people far worse than this man.

  “My business with Mrs. Sullivan is my own,” she said.

  “Well well! There’s some spirit in this filly!”

  She had wasted enough moments with this fool. “Good day to you, sir.” She turned away.

  “Hey, you’re going the wrong way.”

  “What?”

  “Beatrice Sullivan lives up yonder direction.” He pointed. “Upstairs room, last building on the end. But you’d best not go there.”

  “I’ll go where I please, sir. I’ll have you know that my husband is …” My husband. Do I hide behind him now? Can I no longer speak for myself? She cut off. No need to say more.

  “Ma’am, I believe I’ve made you mad. Didn’t mean to.”

  “I prefer not to talk at length to strangers.”

  “We could get better acquainted. I wouldn’t be no stranger then.” He winked.

  She turned and put her chin in the air, thinking what a low specimen of humanity this man was and what a shame it was that Natchez had to take in so many like him. People with filthy persons and no class or culture. People who sometimes seemed more akin to the animal world than the human, people like …

  Like a beaten-down, mistreated, kidnapped Kentucky mountain girl with her hair chopped short, her dress exchanged for a man’s garments, and her virtue left unsullied only by the sheer grace of God. Once again the chiding voice, rising within. She was shaken by it. I’ve forgotten who I am, and what I am. I’ve become soft and settled, all painted up and decorated like the mansions of this town, so much that I’ve forgotten what it was to be anything else.

  In the midst of this thought she had halted, and the man who was talking to her—toying with her, it seemed to her—seemingly perceived that as evidence that he was making a successful advance. He grinned more broadly and stepped toward her. She turned and saw him give her another wink.

  “Sir, if you come a step closer, I’ll use the point of my shoe to put you at a great personal disadvantage,” Celinda said.

  He mugged an exaggerated expression of fear, but did not come closer. “I don’t believe you’re the kind to be played with,” he said.

  “Indeed not. Good day to you, sir.” She walked away, keeping her chin raised.

  “You’ll regret it if you go call on Beatrice Sullivan!” he called after her.

  “I have no fear of a sad old woman,” Celinda replied.

  “It ain’t the woman you need be fearing,” he replied.

  Celinda wondered what that meant, but would not condescend to ask for an explanation and give him the satisfaction of her continued attention. She began to wish she had concealed her pistol somewhere on her person.

  She went on down the street and found the indicated building. It was crumbling, roughly built, the ugliest structure in a row of ugly structures. The rickety flight of stairs leading up its side was most uninviting, and she wondered if she had the will to go through with this. She was about to turn and walk away when she reminded herself that to do so would be to suffer again the pangs of conscience when night came. To fail to do something for Queen’s beloved sister would be to fail herself, and worse, to fail and dishonor Queen. Steeling herself, she breathed a quiet prayer of petition, climbed the stairs and rapped on the door.

  It took a long time to get a response. At last a voice—a man’s voice, to her surprise—filtered out through the door. “Who’s there?”

  “I’m … my name is Mrs. Deerfield. I’m looking for Mrs. Beatrice Sullivan.”

  A pause. “You’re alone?”

  “Yes …” Should I have said that? She felt very uncomfortable.

  “You ain’t come to bring trouble here, have you?”

  “No. I want to see Mrs. Sullivan, maybe be a help to her, if I can. Am I at the right place?”

  “Aye.” The door began to open, and a wan, sickly looking young man glared out of the shadows at her. She fancied that she caught the flicker of a smile on the corners of his pale lips. “Well … look at this!” he said. “Fine woman from above the bluff, come down to see the low folk!”

  She did not like this man. She feared him. But her encounter with the forward fellow minutes earlier had roused in her a fierce determination not to be put off by anyone. No one of this ilk will ever have the advantage over me again. I’ll never again yield my will to that of wicked men. I’ll allow no man to make me feel the way Jim Horton made me feel all those years ago. I will be strong, like my father told me to be. “May I see Mrs. Sullivan?”

  He nodded, his grin now apparent. “Come on in, Mrs. Deerfield.”

  The stench of the place was appalling. The walls seemed to tighten around her as soon as she was inside. The window was shaded with a blanket nailed across it; the air was close and stifling. The man closed the door behind her after she was inside.

  “Where is Mrs. Sullivan?”

  “What do you want with her?”

  “That’s a private matter, sir.”

  “Well, maybe I need to know before I let you see her. Don’t want no harm coming to that dear old thing, you know.”

  “Believe me, I intend only good for her.”

  “Well, whatever you intend, she ain’t here right at the moment. But I’m Timothy, and I’m here, Mrs. Deerfield.” He said her name with an enunciation that sounded obscurely mocking, then stepped toward her and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

  “But you said before that she was here!”

  “I said no such thing. All I said was this was the place she lives. All I said was come in. And you did come in. Yes, you did. Walked in like the prettiest angel …” He drew closer; she backed away. “Look at that hair,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Look at all that pretty hair.…”

  “You stay away from me! I’m leaving.”

  “Oh, no. No. No ma’am, you ain’t. Not just yet you ain’t.” He reached out and grabbed the comb out of her hair. It fell out, long and lustrous, across her shoulders. His eyes flashed as if with fire. “Sweet Mary! All that pretty hair …”

  She reacted by instinct, not by plan. With a shout she shoved him back, knocking him to the floor. He fell on his rump with a grunt. Celinda grabbed the latch of the door and yanked at it, but she was panicked. Her fingers fumbled and the door did not open. He was up and on her in a moment, grasping at her shoulders, pulling her back. She screamed. He was tearing at her dress, pressing his face against her neck, cursing at her in one breath and babbling about the beauty of her hair the next.

  Suddenly she was no longer Celinda Deerfield the woman but Celinda Ames the girl, and this stranger was in her eyes Jim Horton. Every detail of that terrible moment he had attacked her came back in vivid clarity. “No! Oh, God—get off me! No!” She struggled, writhed, tried to scratch and hit, but it went on and on. It was foul, intolerable, incompreh
ensible. She felt weak, faint …

  No! She would not weaken. Could not, or else …

  She was on the floor, with him at the moment clinging to her back, trying to pin her down with his meager weight. From somewhere she found the strength to roll over despite him. Her elbow pressed against his ribs; she brought it up and down again with force. He grunted, his breath a stinking expulsion, fetid like old cheese. She yanked her left hand free and clawed awkwardly but accurately at his face. He yelled and swore. She clawed some more, hit him again with her elbow, then pushed up and to the side and broke away from him.

  He was fast, though, and was up almost as quickly. Celinda tried to run toward the door, but he tripped her. She fell against a crate being utilized as a shelf for fly-covered, rotting food. Something clattered out onto the floor. A knife, coated with a crust of whatever foodstuff it had last sliced. Her hand closed over it. She came to her feet, turned to face him as he came upon her, slashed instinctively with the blade—

  In the next moment he was staggering backward, bleeding from the belly, his hands groping at a fresh, deep puncture wound. The knife was still in her hand. Looking at it, she saw it was coated with blood. He had run himself right into the blade, which she had not even realized had been turned out toward him. He grew even more pale, blubbered and sank to his knees. He cursed her, reached a bloodied hand toward her, and fell onto his face.

  He was still writhing and moaning and cursing when she reached the door. It opened for her this time, and she ran out onto the landing so hard she struck the railing and fell over it. For a second she was suspended in air, the knife still in her hand, and then she struck the ground. The breath was driven out of her and the world grew hazy and darkened. For several seconds she lay stunned, and then her breath came back with a painful heave.

  She came around slowly, then stood. She still had the knife. Shuddering, she tossed it away, into some nearby bushes. She was filthy, her dress torn, her heart hammering. She became sick and heaved her stomach empty. Then, with her head spinning, she stumbled off around the rear of the building, and with hardly any awareness of what she was doing, began making her way through alleys and around the ugly backsides of the shanties and rough edifices of Natchez-under-the-Hill, heading along a meandering and hidden route back to her home.

  By the time she was out of Natchez-under-the-Hill, Celinda’s mind had cleared enough to allow her to realize that she had best avoid being seen in her current tattered state. She had just killed a man—she was sure he must be dead—and though it had been an accident, all she could think of was that she would be considered a murderer. No one must know. No one must see her.

  With the greatest of difficulty she managed to reach her house without being seen, as best she could tell. She entered and stripped off her torn and dirtied clothing, which she immediately burned in the fireplace, poking it and making sure not a trace remained. Then she washed, combed out her hair, and dressed again, her fingers trembling at the clasps. Knowing she must calm herself, she went to Japheth’s liquor cabinet and tried to pour herself a glass of wine, but her trembling was so bad that she dropped the bottle and shattered the glass. At that point she collapsed into tears and sank into a chair, where she wept for nearly an hour.

  After that she was relatively sedate again, and her mind began to evaluatively thread its way through her situation. The option of reporting what happened was far too frightening to consider; it seemed to her the most important matter in the world to keep all of this a secret, particularly from her husband. What a fool she had been to undertake her intended mission of mercy to Beatrice Sullivan, for no reason other than that she was Queen’s sister! At this moment Celinda hated Beatrice Sullivan, maybe even hated Queen herself. And Clardy Tyler. It was his fault more than anyone else’s. Had he not come to Natchez, had he not involved her husband in the quest for a missing brother, had he never come into contact with Beatrice Sullivan, then she would not have been reminded of the “duty” she’d perceived but long neglected. She would not have gone today to Natchez-under-the-Hill and involved herself in the death of the foul creature named Timothy.

  Celinda cleaned up the spilled wine, poured herself a new glass and drank it, followed by another. She evaluated her circumstances and what must be done to cover the fact that she had ventured below the hill today. She hadn’t told Mrs. Mulhaney what her mission was when she took Beulahland to her. She could concoct an alibi to cover the matter on that score. She had reached Natchez-under-the-Hill at a time when the street was relatively free of traffic, and hadn’t seen anyone there she had recognized. And probably no one there had recognized her.

  She remembered the man in the alley, whose warning she now dearly wished she had heeded. Who was he? Would he speak to the law when he learned of the death of Timothy? She wished she hadn’t told that man that she had been going to Beatrice Sullivan’s residence. Before long, surely, it would be known through all Natchez that a stabbed man had been found dead in that very place. The man she had spoken with would hear the news, remember the woman who had asked him about Beatrice Sullivan, and go to the law.…

  She began to feel panicked again, and sat down. Drawing in a deep breath, she told herself that such events might never happen. The man had obviously been no saint, and the fact that he was a Natchez-under-the-Hill denizen alone showed that he probably was not a citizen of caliber. Probably he was one of the endless stream of transients who passed through the riverfront district. He might leave before word of Timothy’s death leaked out.

  But if he was a transient, she thought, how would he have known where so obscure a person as Beatrice Sullivan lived, and that another person shared her quarters? Obviously he had known of Timothy. It had to have been Timothy the man had in mind when he gave her that vague warning that it wasn’t Beatrice Sullivan she should be fearful of in that upstairs room.

  Celinda wept again, believing she was lost. The shadows would gather around her, darker and darker, and then the truth would become known and the hand of the law would close around her. She would be labeled a murderess. Her life with her husband and her beloved child would end.…

  I must find that man. I must give him money to keep silence. Otherwise he’ll be the death of me.

  She shook off that desperate idea. It would be the worst thing possible to do. To offer money for silence would seem an admission of guilt.

  She could find no good options. The only hope she could muster lay in an adage she had often heard her father state: The thing you waste time worrying about most is the very thing that won’t happen. She hoped that was true. Maybe if she just held silence and kept her tracks covered as best she could, all this would simply fade away. The death of Timothy would be put down as just one more unsolvable criminal mystery out of a district rife with such things.

  She lay down and made herself rest another hour, then left the house and went to gather up Beulahland at the Mulhaney residence. Yes, she told Mrs. Mulhaney, this is a different dress than what I was wearing this morning. The other was accidentally soiled and I changed before coming here. Yes, my business was taken care of nicely. But don’t breathe a word to anyone about my being gone today. I’m preparing a surprise for my husband—his birthday is coming up soon—and I don’t want any hints to give it away. Yes, that is nice, isn’t it? Thank you, Mrs. Mulhaney.

  She went back home with Beulahland and promptly poured and drank two more glasses of wine, praying all the while that not all terrible things that happen in secret must ultimately find their way into the light of day.

  CHAPTER 39

  It was an old city already, with a wider mix of cultures even than Natchez. Clardy found New Orleans an astonishing place, full of beauty and promise everywhere he looked. Especially promise—that of finding his brother after almost six years. Yet even this remarkable city had its dark and ugly aspect. There was an underside here, as in Natchez—as in every city, Clardy had come to believe. In every conglomerate citizenry there were those certain avenues,
that certain breed of people, that stratum of life lived in the shadows.

  Told by Japheth to make no private inquiries about Thias without his legal guidance, Clardy had to be patient for a time after reaching New Orleans. Japheth’s business dealings had to be handled promptly and therefore took priority. Clardy was left to content himself with walking about the city, looking at its fine French and Spanish structures, hearing the unusual accents, smelling the enticing, spicy aromas of the foods cooked in the streetside cafés and sold by vendors who seemed to be everywhere. Clardy was not surprised that Isaac Ford, God rest him, had found New Orleans sufficiently appealing to make him try to buy land. Certainly this was a radically different world than Kentucky and Tennessee. Such was what Ford had needed, a place where he could have forgotten, maybe, the hauntings of a much-beloved family stolen from him by disease.

  Dulciana. Clardy still thought of her from time to time. What a lovely young woman she had been! Different by far than the jezebels he had cavorted with during his wild, more youthful days. He might have married the girl if her life hadn’t been cut short. There had been no time for a true romance to blossom between them, but it could have happened. Would have. Clardy knew it.

  Since Dulciana’s death he had not really found anyone else who intrigued him in any serious way. There had been a couple of young women in Nashville—pleasant company, interesting persons, but with so obvious an eye toward marriage that they had scared him off. So here he was, in his mid-twenties, no longer a boy, but a man old enough to have a houseful of children … and he had not even a wife. He had friends who had married at sixteen, seventeen years of age. Would he never settle down? He didn’t seem any closer to it than in his revel-filled days of living on Beaver Creek and boyishly looking forward to a life of glorious, romantic criminality.