Passage to Natchez

by Cameron Judd

  Clardy cleaned the ashes from his pipe and put it away, then headed for his blankets. He was weary in body and even wearier in mind. Yet initially he could not sleep. His mind was heavy with worry for Thias. Further, from where he lay he could see Isaac Ford’s tightly sealed coffin, and that made him think of and dearly miss his elder friend and partner. He wished that Ford could have met Thias. He would have had good and sensible advice for him, no doubt.

  Clardy was just about to fall asleep when a loud, booming crack echoed up as if from the heart of the earth. A jolt unlike anything he had ever experienced threw him bodily upward, and his groggy mind filled with images of Jim Horton and that crazed barn preacher, and the notion that just maybe they had been right, for it surely felt like the earth had given its death shudder, and was indeed coming to an end.

  It was an experience of the sort never to be forgotten by those who lived through it.

  The earth shrugged in the night, setting off jolts that almost instantly wiped out a river country town called New Madrid, set the tranquil Mississippi to flowing in rapids that sometimes turned backward upon themselves, making the river flow opposite its normal direction. Along the collapsing Mississippi banks and for miles inland great cracks opened in the earth, swallowing trees, hills, cattle, barns, houses. At other spots the soil kneaded itself into softness, then opened wetly as great fountains of sodden sand spewed up from below. Buildings fell, ancient trees crashed to the earth, and massive boulders that had lay still as sleeping giants since centuries before Christ went suddenly tumbling into motion, rolling and bounding down bucking hillsides, breaking trees like twigs while fowl screeched in alarm overhead and animals died of fright. Land rose here, sank there, causing enormous shifts of waterways, creating fast-filling lakes where minutes before there had been only dry land.

  As far away as Charleston mortar and brick cracked and church bells rang of their own accord. In Washington City, men of government paused, swearing they felt the earth shifting beneath them and secretly wondered if this were a sign. Hundreds upon hundreds of miles away, as far as Canada, grazing cattle lifted their heads and cats crawled beneath porches, struck with fear at the vibrations that rippled through the earth. Where the quake could be felt the strongest, fearful husbands and wives clung to one another in their beds, some of them, in fear of imminent divine judgment, confessing past infidelities to one another and then realizing that if the end didn’t come after all, nothing could be the same between them from then on.

  Of all these things Clardy Tyler knew nothing. He was aware only of chaos, violent shaking, then chilling cold water that engulfed him and shut out light and air. He was swirled about, moved, bumped, tortured, sucked down and spat back up again, completely at the mercy of the river and the apocalypse that had come upon him.

  His last thought was of Thias.

  Celinda clung to a piece of broken, floating mast with one arm and held the squalling Mary above the cold water as best she could. Beulahland was beside her, clinging hard to the same mast and crying in terror. Celinda longed to comfort her and tell her what was happening, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know herself. The moment the quake had struck had come so quickly it had not even ingrained itself in memory. One moment she was on the boat, babe in arms and elder daughter beside her, and the next she was in the river, clinging to this mast and fearing more for the lives of her children than for her own.

  As minutes passed, a few memories returned. She recalled seeing the high, blufflike bank of Cutbank Island come heaving down from above. She remembered how she and the little ones narrowly escaped being crushed by the tons of heavy earth and rock that splintered the boat like a fist crushing a toy. The boatmen hadn’t been so fortunate. Every last man of them took the full impact of the falling bank and were driven deep into the suddenly churning river. What had happened to Clardy Tyler, she did not know. Nor Japheth. God above, let nothing have happened to Japheth!

  “Mama!” The cry was Beulahland’s as her grip on the soaked and slick mast gave way. She sank out of view, making Celinda scream. Yet there was nothing she could do with one arm holding the baby and her other clinging to the mast. If she let go, all of them would drown.

  A small hand grasped her skirt below the water, then another. A moment later Beulahland’s face broke through the surface; she gasped for air. “Grab the mast again!” Celinda shouted in her face. Beulahland flailed, got a grip with one hand, then both. Wrapping her arms around the mast, she cried and sputtered, water streaming out of her mouth.

  They clung to the mast as hard as they could, keeping hold of life in a world that had become chaos.

  “I’m scared, Mama.” Beulahland’s voice was quivering and high, birdlike. “I’m scared.”

  “You must be strong,” Celinda heard herself say. “Keep holding on. You must learn to be strong. If we are strong, we will live.”

  “Where is the boat, Mama?”

  “The boat is gone. But we are here. We will be strong. We will live.”

  “Where is Daddy?”

  “Wherever he is, he is in God’s hands. So are we, as we always are through everything bad and good. Be strong, little girl. Be strong.”

  They clung, hands going numb, fingers turning white. Beulahland whimpered. Celinda encouraged her with words, then began to sing, because her singing had always comforted Beulahland when she was distressed. She sang old songs, minor tunes from the mountains that had come from Europe with the first immigrants. She sang one song after another, and looked for some place they could come to land. But they were in the midst of the river and no land was to be seen. So she sang some more, and together they held on to the broken mast.

  Japheth wasn’t sure how he was managing to stay afloat, never having been all that strong a swimmer. Yet somehow he was doing it, treading water in the turbulent river, occasionally going under but always managing to come up again.

  But he couldn’t keep it up forever, and his heart was beginning to feel strained. A kind of numbing pain throbbed in his arms—was it the cold, or a herald that his heart was about to fail him? He looked wildly about, hoping something substantial would float by that he could use for bouyancy.

  Something brushed against him; he twisted his head and saw it was the corpse of one of the boatmen. Wincing away from it, he felt it slide past, facedown in the water, then turn in the current and twist out of sight into the darkness.

  He sensed more than saw that another thing was floating toward him. Dark, shapeless until it was right upon him—a skiff! Miraculously, it was even floating right side up. Japheth supposed it must have been tossed into the water when the initial jolt struck.

  He grabbed for it but failed to get a grip. The skiff was about to float on out of reach when a second desperate try succeeded. He held on tightly, his fingers so cold they had grown nerveless. Pulling up, he tried to heave himself into the skiff, but the river sucked hard at his clothing. His heart was hammering far too hard. Had to quit or—

  No! He could not give up. He gave another heave, the effort almost superhuman, and suddenly he was rolling into the skiff, which was about a quarter full of water. He sat up, breathing hard. The oars were locked into place in their holders inside the skiff, to his good fortune. He freed them, put them in place, and began to row.

  He began calling Celinda’s name as loudly as he could.

  A voice called back. Celinda’s voice! And along with it, a crying baby. Mary was alive as well.

  “Celinda! Where are you?”

  She called again, and when he heard Beulahland’s voice join in, he began to weep in relief. Following the sound, he rowed, working his way around the floating matter in the river.

  He found them still clinging to the mast and pulled them into the skiff. There they hugged each other, crying and laughing at the same time. Celinda took up the oars and began rowing, heading toward the eastern shore.

  They reached the bank and moved inland, getting as far away from the river as they could. Progress wa
s difficult because there were huge yawning gaps in the land, created by the earthquake. Somehow they made it past all such obstructions and finally came into a large, level meadow, free of trees. There they sat down, huddled together, to wait out the night.

  Japheth had lost his watch and thus was unable to check the time when the next tremor hit. This was a particularly terrible one that literally tossed them about. They heard more trees falling in the forests all around, but there were no trees where they were and thus no danger of being struck by falling timber. And the earth did not open in the meadow. They passed the remainder of the long night in terror, but no harm came to them. Beulahland finally fell asleep in her mother’s arms, but she awakened each time the earth trembled. Japheth tried to keep count of the tremors, but lost count after about twenty of them. All through the night they heard the strange, almost moaning sound of earth giving way to water, and tremendous splashes as entire banks caved in and collapsed into the river.

  The morning light revealed a land much changed. The river was high and filled with floating timber, pieces of wreckage and flotsam from their boat and other watercraft that had been destroyed farther up the foam-covered river. They went down to the riverside and observed all the devastation, filled with astonishment.

  “There’s something missing, Japheth,” Celinda said.

  “Yes,” Japheth replied. “The island is gone.”

  It was true. Nothing remained of Cutbank Island at all. The entire mass of land had crumbled away and sunk into the river.

  “Look,” Beulahland said, and pointed.

  Isaac Ford’s coffin was floating in the river, lodged up against a jam of logs. Atop the coffin was a man. Japheth looked closely. “It’s Clardy!” he said. “Great heaven! He’s saved himself on that coffin!”

  “He may be dead,” Celinda said. “He’s not moving at all.”

  “I’ll row the skiff out to him,” Japheth said.

  “No. Remember your heart. You’ve had strain enough. I’ll go.”

  The skiff was still where they had tied it. Leaving Beulahland, Japheth, and Mary on the shore, Celinda rowed out into the river, chasing the floating coffin.

  “Clardy! Can you hear me?”

  He groaned. He was alive.

  Celinda reached the oar out toward him. “Clardy, can you take hold of the oar? Take it—I’ll get you to shore.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after great difficulty, Celinda rowed the skiff back to the shore. Clardy Tyler was stunned but alive, seemingly with no bones broken except perhaps a rib that was paining him terribly. With Celinda’s help, he rose and came onto the shore. Celinda helped him up toward the meadow, as behind them Isaac Ford’s coffin drifted free of the log jam and floated on down the river and out of sight.

  Clardy sat down painfully beside Japheth, gripping his side. “The world didn’t come to an end,” he said.

  “No,” Japheth replied. “Not for us, it didn’t.” He looked out across the altered landscape. “But it has changed. God in heaven, how it has changed!”

  “Cutbank Island … it’s gone.”

  “Yes. Celinda and I saw that at first light. The whole island, pulled down into the river.” He drew in his breath. “Oh, no. Thias.”

  Clardy nodded. “Yes. Thias. He is gone. He must be.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Who can say, Japheth? Perhaps he was dead even before the quake. He may have put his neck in a noose last night.” He was fighting emotion. “I hoped he would have made it through and done what I told him. He could have crossed the river and gone west. There’s a new world beyond the river. It could have been Thias’s new world.”

  “Clardy.” It was Celinda who spoke. She pointed.

  Clardy looked, and despite his pain, stood, eyes brightening, a thankful awe filling him.

  Out in the midst of the river was a skiff, and in it, a man. Clardy strained his eyes, peering through the mist rising off the water. The man in the skiff stood slowly, balancing himself in the little craft. He raised his hand slowly, and then Clardy knew. How many times had he seen Thias give that same wave out on the Holston or the French Broad back in Tennessee, in the long-ago days he passed his time rafting on the rivers?

  Japheth smiled. “He lived, Clardy. He lived.”

  “Yes. He lived—thank God. Japheth—the little one. May I hold her a moment, so he can see?”

  “Of course. Celinda?”

  Celinda put the child into Clardy’s arms. He smiled at her. “Can you reach the sky, Mary? Up we go!” He carefully lifted her above his head so that Thias could see her from out on the river and know she was well. Thias waved again. Clardy lowered Mary and put her back in her new mother’s arms.

  As they watched, Thias sat down again and took up his oars. One final wave, and then he began to row—toward the western shore.

  “He’s doing it, Clardy. He’s doing what you said. Heading west.”

  Clardy nodded, eyes gleaming and moist with tears. “Out of an old world dying, a new world arises.”

  “That’s right. He’s going to make it through in that world, Clardy. He’s going to survive. Maybe even do well.”

  “Yes. I believe he will.” Clardy swiped his hand across his cheek. “I only wish he could have come back with me. I had hoped he could make a new beginning in Kentucky. That we could have been together, like when we were boys.”

  “Who can say, Clardy? Maybe this way will be the best.”

  Clardy watched Thias’s skiff go out of view, lost in the west-lying mists. “Yes. Maybe it will. He’s a good man, you know. Even when we were boys, everybody knew that. Thias was the good brother. Me, I was the bad one … but yet I was the blessed one, too. Blessed with friends, with family … with mercy time and again when I didn’t merit it. I’m thankful. I truly am. If Thias has even half the happiness and good friends I’ve been given through the years, he’ll be doing well indeed.”

  They remained in the meadow by the river for two full days, not daring to leave the safety of the open space until the earth had quit its fitful motion. Celinda bound up Clardy’s ribs, which greatly reduced his pain, but he would have to move stiffly and with caution for some time to come.

  Tremor large and small occurred sporadically throughout the entire two days, frightening but not hurting them. They had nothing to eat until Celinda managed to fish a floating barrel of flour out of the water and with the flour make simple, bland cakes. It wasn’t good fare, but no one complained except the baby.

  At last they left the meadow, walking east and north, taking the first steps homeward in a world that, though destroyed and devastated, also seemed fresher, more virgin, more full of promise than the world they had known before. A new world would rise from the old. It would be up to them to make it a better one.

  AFTERWORD

  Though Passage to Natchez is a novel and most of its main characters are fictional, the story includes many historical figures, and several incidents of the narrative either depict or are closely based upon events that actually occurred.

  Among the historical figures in the story are the Harpe brothers, Micajah and Wiley. The “Terrible Harpes,” as they came to be known, were among America’s first recorded serial killers. Unlike most of their latter-day ilk who terrorize our society, however, their crimes had a random, patternless quality that only makes the pair seem all the more wicked. In Passage to Natchez I have occasionally taken novelist’s license with fine details and chronology in the Harpe story, and have added some fictional characters to the mix, but all in all their bloody tale is presented as it happened.

  Some readers may be curious about what became of the three Harpe “wives.” After her Harpe days were through and her legal waters settled, Betsy Roberts reportedly went on to marry a man named John Hufstetter, who settled as a tenant farmer near Russellville, Kentucky, where Betsy raised chickens. Later the family moved on to the Red River in Tennessee, then possibly on to the Duck River. Betsy’s son, called Joe Roberts, grew up and
eventually became a soldier. Susanna (often called Susan) Harpe remained in Kentucky, near Russellville, weaving cloth for a living and raising her daughter, named Lovey. Susanna apparently remained a woman of gruff, hardened character throughout her life and was disliked by her neighbors; her daughter, though reportedly a pretty girl, had a similar personality and stigma. Eventually the two of them moved to Christian County, where Susanna died. Lovey thereafter headed down the Mississippi River and eventually ended up in Texas.

  As for Sally Rice Harpe, perhaps the most pitiable of the Harpe women, she returned to Knoxville with her preacher father, a man reportedly of high character and public respect despite his daughter’s waywardness. Remarrying, she had another daughter, who grew up to be “a fine-looking young lady,” as one eyewitness recorded.

  “Parson Rice,” as Sally’s father was known, later moved his family, including Sally and her second husband, to Illinois. While on the way, William Stewart, the former Logan County sheriff who had known the Harpe women in their darkest days, happened to see Sally and her companions. Historian Lyman Draper, who interviewed Stewart about the Harpes, described the encounter as follows: Stewart “did not recognize them, but thought he knew them, particularly Sally, who eyed him closely and, after a little, went to one side, sat down and, with her face in her hands, had a weeping spell, doubtlessly recounting her Harpe adventures, prompted by the presence of one of the few persons who had treated her with civility and kindness in her wayward career. After he left them, Major Stewart recollected hearing the old gentleman called Rice and the identity flashed upon his mind.”