Passage to Natchez

by Cameron Judd

  When Clardy and Jenny rode into the upsloping yard of their two-story, rock-walled home, Faith came out to greet him. The sun was just now beginning to set to Clardy’s right; its muted evening rays caught the amber glint in Faith’s lush hair and made Clardy feel a familiar surge of love and desire for his attractive wife. She was the first women he had ever met who was able to supplant the memory of Dulciana and a romance that had never had a chance to blossom. He still found it hard to believe that such a feminine treasure had become his.

  “Clardy, there’s been a man here to see you,” she said as he handed Jenny down to her.

  He dismounted. “Is he still here?”

  “No. He came from the newspaper in Frankfort. He heard you were making some big political plans. Getting ready to commence a run for the legislature, or something. He had the notion that the camp meeting was a political rally.”

  Clardy laughed. “I suppose you set him straight on that.”

  “Yes. He seemed disappointed. He had come quite a distance, you know. I invited him to stay for supper, but he didn’t do it. Speaking of supper, we should have eaten it long ago. Where were you two?”

  “Out at the big meadow. Sorry we were late. Jenny was practicing her running—less than a minute now across the whole field!”

  “Well! You’re growing strong and fast, Jenny.” The child beamed at her mother’s praise.

  “What are we eating?”

  “Beef stew and fresh bread. It should be ready by the time you get the horse stabled. Come on, Jenny. Let’s go slice that bread. Lord knows it’s plenty cool enough to cut now.”

  Clardy stabled and groomed down the horse, thinking about what Faith had told him. He found it amusing that so many people seemed to think him destined for politics, in which he had only a minimal interest. It all went to show how well-known and established he was becoming in Kentucky. Who would have ever thought it? A young man bent on crime, turning into a leading citizen who folks believed destined for office. It was a peculiar world indeed.

  On the way back to the house he paused to watch the sun complete its descent behind the horizon. The sky was shot with splendid colors and the breeze carried the sweet, natural aromas of summer, mixed with the delicious smells that wafted out of the kitchen shed behind the house. He heard the voices of Faith and Jenny, singing together the same old tune Jenny had been rendering so loudly most of the way home. Out in the pen near the barn, the hunting hounds bayed at some creature they had scented in the nearby woods. The only dog allowed to run free, a stray that Jenny had come to love, and that therefore had found a place in the family, came dancing and nipping at Clardy’s boots. He nudged it gently away.

  This is a good evening to be alive, Clardy thought. A good home, a beautiful family … I have been blessed.

  He entered the house and closed the door behind him. The hounds were still baying, so he went to one of the windows and looked out to see what had them stirred up. He saw nothing unusual.

  Out in the darkness of the woods, a lone figure who had been watching the scene and silently cursing the dogs for threatening to reveal him, turned and went back to the horse he had tethered fifty yards away. He mounted and headed for the horse trail that sliced through the woods and toward the creek.

  The next evening

  Israel Coffman’s frame was stooped with age, and his hair and beard had gone white years ago, yet he was substantially unconscious of these effects of the years. His mind was as sharp, maybe sharper, than it had been in his long-past youth. He was famed for his ability to recite almost the entire New Testament from memory, and quite a bit of the Old as well. Unable to read the Bible’s words himself after losing his sight on King’s Mountain, Coffman had been forced to rely on having others read to him. The memorization had come about naturally, surprising Coffman himself almost as much as those who witnessed it. It was one of the aspects of the man that had made him quite a famous clergyman. His counsel was treasured by people over all Kentucky and beyond; it was not uncommon for folks to ride more than a hundred miles just to meet the man and gain his advice on some matter or another they were having to deal with. Coffman himself seemed almost unaware of his fame, and that lack of self-consciousness was another of his attributes that made people love him.

  The old preacher was dozing at the moment inside a small cabin that his servant, Jubal—a former slave of others, now a freeman who served Coffman by choice rather than necessity—had built for him in the woods near his home. Coffman could sense the solitude of the place, and loved it. Some of his happiest hours were spent inside that cabin, or in the shade of its breezy, roofed front porch.

  He was awakened by his well-developed, nearly instinctive sense that others were present. Raising his head, he listened, and said, “Jubal?”

  “No, sir,” came the answer, in the voice of a stranger. “You don’t know me. You are the preacher Coffman?”

  “I am Israel Coffman.” He sat up straighter, brushed down his clothing and cleared his throat, feeling embarrassed to have been caught napping, and slightly alarmed at the fact a stranger had found him in his private place. Coffman wasn’t a worrying man, usually, but he did realize that a man had to be careful. “You have me at some disadvantage, sir.…”

  “I’m just a stranger who has heard many good things about you, Preacher. I hope you don’t care that I’ve sought you out.”

  “Of course not, sir.” Coffman’s alarm faded. The man had a gentle manner of speaking and did not strike him as a danger. “What can I do for you?”

  He heard the man shuffle his foot. He’s nervous. “Well, Preacher, I thought I might seek some counsel from you.”

  Coffman was not surprised; he was often sought out by people troubled by one thing or another. “I’ll be happy to give what I can, sir. May I ask your name?”

  “Well … I’d just as soon keep this private, sir.”

  “Very well. How can I help you?”

  A pause. Then: “Preacher, just how much wrong can be forgiven a man?”

  “I know of no limit to forgiveness, my friend.”

  “But what about a man who began as a good man, and got himself drawn away and into bad things, sins he never thought he’d get into?”

  “If that’s your story, sir, then it is no different than the story of a multitude of others. We are all sinful folk, knowing what is good and then failing to do it.”

  “I’ve been a thief, Preacher. I’ve stole horses, money, guns … once I even helped steal gold from a church in New Orleans.”

  Coffman wondered whom he was talking to. Judging from the voice, the man was still young. And somewhat familiar, too … the voice, the accent, the way the man spoke his words, tugged at something in his mind.

  “Sir, I have no power to excuse any sins, big or small. That is the prerogative of our creator. Repent and turn to Christ. No sin is too great to be forgiven.”

  The man fidgeted. “You’d know more about that kind of thing than I would. I’ve never known much about religion.… Ah, hell—pardon me, Preacher—what’s the use? I’ve ruined my life far too much to try to correct it now.” Coffman heard the man turn to walk away.

  “Sir, wait! Please don’t leave. Believe me, you’re feeling nothing but what most feel when they become weighted with their own sins. Don’t give up the fight yet.”

  The man stopped. “Preacher, I don’t know that I’ll ever become a religious man. Don’t think I’ve got it in me. But I do feel the weight of what I’ve done wrong. Preacher, I’m a bad man, and I never wanted to be. Even now I make my living by counterfeiting coin. I ain’t done an honest deed in years, and I wasn’t raised for such as that. When I was growing up, I had me a brother who was what most folks called sorry. He seen himself the same way, even had ideas that when he was grown he’d become a robber. I always mocked him for that … and now he’s grown and is a good man, and me, the one everyone thought would turn out so good, I’m a thief and counterfeiter. I’ve escaped jail by the skin of my
teeth. I nearly drowned myself running from the law … but I reckon it didn’t teach me nothing. I turned right around again and went back to the sorry ways I had took up.”

  “Sir, you spoke of a brother. Do you have other kin?”

  “Not besides him. And I’m grateful for that, in a way. Ain’t nobody who would be proud to have me for a kinsman. I’m glad there ain’t nobody else for me to shame.”

  “What about your brother? Maybe you could turn to him. He could help you in some way.…”

  “I doubt my brother knows I’m living. We parted years ago, and I went looking for him. I had money to give him, an inheritance we were supposed to share. But it was stole from me. I never found my brother, and I reckon that was for the best. I’m shamed that I lost him what was his due. But he’s done well for himself despite that. Done well despite me.” He stopped, and laughed coldly. “You know, Preacher, I came to these parts with the notion of meeting my brother again. I was right there to his house, watching him and his family … and I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t show myself. I’m too ashamed. I don’t even want him to know of me now.”

  “With all respect, sir, I believe you do,” Coffman replied. “Why else would you have come to me? You’re seeking encouragement to do the thing you’re afraid to do—and I want to give it. I can tell you, from having heard it from Clardy Tyler himself, that he would be happy beyond words to see you.”

  Coffman stopped speaking, waiting for the man’s reaction. He had figured it out—or believed he had—all in a rush when the man had spoken of his brother. Coffman had heard Clardy talk about the brother he still badly missed, the one who had supposedly died while swimming away from pursuers who would have seen him jailed for a theft. As soon as he realized who this stranger was, he understood why his voice sounded familiar. It was almost the same as Clardy Tyler’s voice, right down to the most minute inflections.

  “How did you … you know who I am?” The man sounded very discomfited, just as Coffman had expected.

  “You are Thias Tyler, are you not? The brother of my good friend Clardy Tyler?”

  The man stammered, then said, “Yes. I am Thias Tyler.”

  “Mr. Tyler, your brother believes you are dead. He was told that you drowned near New Orleans.”

  Silence. Then he said, “Good. Good. It’s best that he believes that. Because the Thias Tyler he knew is dead. I’m sorry I’ve troubled you, Preacher. I’ll be on my way. And sir, I want you not to tell Clardy that I was here. Don’t tell him I’m alive. Just say nothing at all.”

  Coffman was dismayed at that. He knew that the perceived loss of his brother had left a great vacancy in the soul of Clardy Tyler. But if this man refused to grant permission, he would be bound by ministerial honor to hold silence. “Mr. Tyler, I beg you to reconsider. Your brother has grieved over you for years. You have the chance to heal a great wound.”

  “No. I can’t. How can seeing me for what I’ve turned into heal him? How can he be glad to see a brother who has turned out to be unworthy to bear the Tyler family name? No, Preacher. I was wrong to come here at all. And I don’t want you to tell Clardy I was here. You understand me?”

  “Yes,” Coffman said sadly. “I understand … but you are wrong. Clardy already knows about your crimes. He would still be delighted more than you can know to see you.”

  “He don’t need to see me. I don’t know why I ever got the notion to come here. Good-bye, Preacher.”

  “Sir, you’re leaving me in a difficult situation—Clardy is my friend. For me to know this but be unable to tell him … it will be a torment for me.”

  “Then it appears I’ve done a bad thing yet again. It seems to be the way life goes for me. I’m sorry, Preacher. There ain’t no more to be said. I’d best leave.” He paused. “It’s a dark world for me, Preacher. Dark as it can be. I’ve come to believe there is nothing but darkness, and I’ll never escape it.”

  “Dark … sir, I can tell you about darkness. I live in it. Have for many years. But the mere fact that I know it is dark shows something very important.”

  “What?”

  “It shows that there is such a thing as light, and that I have known it. Had I been born blind, had I never known what light was, I would have never detected its absence. I would have lived in darkness without knowing it for what it was. And if the light has enabled me to know darkness for what it is, doesn’t the darkness also enable me to know that there is light?”

  “What has that got to do with me?”

  “Don’t you see, Mr. Tyler? You said your world is dark, and no doubt that is true. But does not the fact that you know it is dark show that there is something besides darkness? It is by the darkness that we know the light. It is by the crooked that we know the straight. Don’t give up your hope, sir. There is a light, one no darkness can overcome. No man has lived who is beyond reach of that light. Don’t go, Mr. Tyler. Stay. Come with me and see Clardy, and then let’s you and I work together to help you find the light and the hope you are looking for.”

  Silence followed; Coffman sensed the struggle going on inside Thias Tyler. He prayed fervently, waiting for response.

  “No, Preacher. No. I can’t stay. There’s no hope for me, no point in me wasting your time. I got to be going. Thank you for talking to me. Good-bye.”

  “Sir!” Coffman called, hearing Thias walk away. “Let’s talk more. Don’t go! Please!”

  No answer.

  “Sir! Mr. Tyler, please come back!”

  He did not come back, though Coffman called again and again, until he knew he was alone.

  CHAPTER 43

  Two days later, evening

  Clardy stood on the porch of his big house, puffing his pipe and watching a storm build in the west. It promised to be a big one, heavy with rain and rampant with lightning. If his guess was correct, it would reach his immediate area in less than an hour. It would be a night when a man was happy to have a stout roof above his head and sturdy walls around him.

  As the sky darkened he was surprised to notice a rider coming up the road toward the house. This was not the kind of night he would expect to find anyone out traveling. Squinting, he looked closely, “I’ll be!” he muttered to himself. “That looks to be Jubal.”

  As the rider came in close, thunder rumbling over the hills and meadows around him, Clardy saw that he was right. He stepped out into the yard. “Jubal, pleased to see you this evening. But what in the devil has brought you out with such a gust building?”

  Jubal, devoted friend and servant of Israel Coffman, swung lithely out of his saddle. “’Evening, Mr. Tyler. I hope I ain’t come at a bad time.”

  “Not a bad time for me, but it could have been for you, considering all the lightning I’m seeing in them hills there. Come up on the porch. Is everything all right?”

  “Well, sir, I reckon everything’s all right with me. But I’m worrying about the preacher.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s fretful. Had something worrying him for the past two or three days.”

  “You know what it is?”

  Jubal’s expression and gestures showed uncertainty, like he wasn’t sure he should be saying what he was. “Yes, sir, I do. He told me. He tells me things, you see, that he don’t tell nobody else. Not even Mrs. Coffman. He tells me because he knows he can trust me to keep it quiet.” Jubal ducked his head at that. “But this evening I decided that this last thing he told me, I don’t figure I can keep quiet about, even though I ain’t supposed to tell.” Jubal pursed his lips and shook his head. “Mr. Tyler, you ever run across a time when it seemed like to do the right thing you had to do a wrong thing?”

  “I reckon everybody runs upon such times as that, if they live long enough,” Clardy replied, somewhat bewildered.

  “Well, sir, this here is one of them times for me. The preacher, he told me something that happened here a day or two back, something he wants real bad to tell you but can’t, because the person who told him said he co
uldn’t. Preachers have to abide by that, when folks tell them things in secret, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “But I reckon I ain’t bound by no such promise, am I? I mean, I ain’t a preacher.”

  Clardy could hardly tell what Jubal was talking about and so was in no position to give good counsel. “Jubal, like an old friend of mine named Isaac Ford would have said, you’ve got me outright confuserated.”

  Jubal didn’t smile. Clardy realized how heavily burdened the man was. “Mr. Tyler, it may not be right for me to tell, but it wouldn’t be right for me not to, either.”

  “Tell what, Jubal?”

  Jubal took a deep breath, paused, then said, “Mr. Tyler, that man who came to the preacher a night or two ago, he was … he was your brother Thias.”

  Faith Tyler had never seen her husband in such a state as this. Clardy had never seemed an excitable man, but certainly he was excited now. Faith did not blame him. Clardy had talked to her many times about the brother he had lost to the waters of Lake Pontchartrain. She always thought the tale a fine one, tragically romantic and exciting. Now that she knew Thias Tyler was alive, however, she saw the tale in a different light. Up until now, Clardy’s criminal brother had been a figure from a dead past, irrelevant to the present and the happy life she lived here. Now he was irrelevant no longer, and that was worrisome. Clardy was fired with a wild, urgent desire to find Thias. That meant he would leave here, for heaven only knew how long, and certainly would have to delve into dangerous criminal realms if he was to locate the brother who had been lost in that underworld long ago.