Natchez Under-the-Hill

by Stan Applegate

  He patted her short hair and hugged her. “I’m going to miss you, too, Hannah. I’m so glad that you’re home and safe.” Hannah stepped back and looked up at him.

  Nashoba turned to Zeb. He held out his hand. “I’m proud to call you brother,” he said. They shook hands and thumped each other on the back. Zeb, Nashoba, and the two nakni loaded the food into the bags.

  Dr. McAllister took Nashoba’s hand. “Thank you again, Nashoba. Be careful on the Nashville Road. It has become much more dangerous.”

  “The Nashville Road?” Zeb asked Dr. McAllister.

  “Yes. When heading north on it toward Nashville, they call it the Nashville Road, not the Natchez Road.”

  The braves mounted and moved toward the gate. Hannah ran to open it. She stood in the street as they cantered toward the Nashville Road and Yowani.

  Even though he was hungry and the meal was wonderful, Zeb was eager to leave. But he hated to get up from the table before the others were finished. He looked up to find Hannah’s mother smiling at him. “I know you’re anxious to go, Zeb. Why don’t you and Hannah get your horses tacked up and go over to Culpepper’s farm to get Suba? Tack up that old bay for me, too. I just can’t let Hannah out of my sight.”

  A short time later, Zeb, Hannah, and her mother passed through the outskirts of town and then turned the horses off the main road onto a narrow trail between two fenced fields. A number of horses grazed on the far side of one of the fields.

  Hannah put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. A tall black mare lifted her head, her ears flicked forward. When Hannah whistled again, the mare broke away from the herd and galloped toward her. The other horses thundered toward the fence behind the mare.

  The black horse put her head over the split-rail fence, her soft muzzle extended toward Hannah’s outstretched hand. Hannah stroked Suba’s face. “I’m home, Suba. I’m home,” she murmured.

  Suba turned her head and looked at Harlequin, the horse Hannah was riding. She stretched her neck, her nose close to his head. Suddenly, she squealed and leaped sideways, skittering along the fence.

  A man on a large chestnut horse galloped toward them. “Private property!” he shouted. “Get away from those horses!”

  The man pulled the horse in, clouds of dust settling around him. He was holding the reins in one hand, his other hand resting on a rifle in a saddle holster. He sat back as he recognized Hannah’s mother. “Mrs. McAllister,” he said. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?” He lifted his chin toward Hannah and Zeb. “Who are these two boys?”

  “Mr. Culpepper!” Hannah cried. “It’s me! Hannah! I’m home! I’ve come to get Suba.”

  The man moved his horse so he was face-to-face with Hannah. He stared at her face and her short cropped hair and then at the Choctaw deerskin pants she was wearing. “Hannah! My dear child. I would never have recognized you. You’re home! You’re back! How wonderful! We all thought we would never see you again. Where have you been? What happened?”

  Hannah’s mother walked her horse closer to his. “We just thank God she is back with us.”

  Hannah reached out and put her hand on his arm. “I have to tell you all about it later, Mr. Culpepper.” She raised her chin in Zeb’s direction. “We need to take Suba back to the house so Zeb can ride her into Natchez.”

  Hannah turned Harlequin and moved back toward the gate. Zeb and Culpepper turned with her, riding three abreast. Hannah’s mother followed behind.

  “There’s no way I can let you take Suba,” Culpepper said. “She’s much too spirited. She’s been ridden every day, but not many could ride her on an open road, Hannah. She needs to be worked hard for a while in a corral.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Culpepper. We’ll lead her home and then we’ll see,” Hannah replied. “If she’s too hard to handle, we’ll bring her back.”

  Suba, in the meantime, had galloped away, leading the other horses back to the far side of the field. When Hannah reached the gate, she vaulted off Harlequin, opened the gate, and stepped inside, holding Suba’s bridle in her hand. She put her fingers in her mouth again, but even before she could whistle, Suba trotted, tail raised high, back to her. As Hannah approached her, Suba stretched her neck toward Hannah and then backed away.

  Hannah turned from Suba and began to walk slowly toward the gate. Suba stepped forward quickly and put her head over Hannah’s shoulder. Hannah reached up and stroked the horse’s muzzle, slipping the reins over her head and the bit into her mouth. “You always fall for that, don’t you, girl?”

  She had used a curb bit with a short shank. Hannah looked up at Zeb. “I know how you feel about curb bits, Zeb, but no one would be able to manage Suba without it.”

  “We use curb bits with all the horses we train for the army,” Zeb replied. “The sergeant was usin’ a curb bit with an extra long shank and a roller. It’s very painful, and can break a horse’s jaw. That’s why I didn’t like it.”

  Culpepper looked closely at Zeb as if he had just noticed something about the young man.

  Hannah led the horse out of the pasture and closed the gate behind her. She remounted Harlequin and then led Suba down the dirt road toward the McAllister house.

  Mr. Culpepper rode with them next to Hannah’s mother. He tipped his hat toward Mrs. McAllister. “Martha, I am glad Hannah’s home safe and sound.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  As he turned the horse back toward his farm he said, “Welcome home, Hannah. Mary Katherine will be relieved and happy to know you’re home.”

  He looked at Zeb and appeared to be about to say something, but then tipped his hat again and cantered back the way he had come.

  As they neared Hannah’s house, Zeb could see Hannah’s father standing on the front porch, waiting for them. Sarah was standing by the gate. Hannah and Zeb put Christmas, Harlequin, and Mrs. McAllister’s horse back into the barn.

  Zeb led Suba around the backyard, talking to her quietly. He stroked her long neck. “What a beautiful animal you are. We’re gonna get along just fine,” he whispered to her. The horse pulled back and then danced forward. “You’re lettin’ me know you’re ready to run, aren’t you? Calm down, atta girl, calm down.”

  A fine, misty rain was beginning to fall. Zeb handed Suba’s reins to Hannah and jogged into the barn where he had left his tack. He returned with his bed roll and saddlebags and the piece of worn canvas that served as half of a small tent. “If it starts to rain hard,” he said, “I can use this as a poncho.”

  “This rain won’t last,” Dr. McAllister said. “We get little sun showers almost every day at this time of year.”

  Suba lifted her head. Someone was coming down the road at an easy canter. “It’s Katie!” Hannah shouted, and ran to open the gate.

  A girl mounted on a dappled gray Arabian slowed the horse and then trotted her through the open gate and into the yard. The girl sat tall and completely at ease. She looked around the yard, her eyes passing over Hannah and then turning sharply back. “Hannah?” she said. “Is that you?”

  Hannah smiled up at her.

  The girl vaulted off the horse and ran to Hannah. “Oh, Hannah, Hannah, Father said I wouldn’t recognize you. We all thought you were dead!”

  Hannah moved quietly to where Zeb was standing with Suba. She took Suba’s reins from him. “Katie, I want you to meet the person who brought me home, Zebulon D’Evereux from Franklin, Tennessee. Zeb, this is Mary Katherine Culpepper, my best friend.”

  The girl pulled off her hat, revealing hair the coppery color of the lamp Zeb’s mama kept polished at home. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail. Freckles spread across her cheeks and her nose.

  Zeb nodded to her, and the girl smiled at him. “Father told me about you,” she said. “He’s coming here this afternoon to talk with you.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Zeb, talking Suba’s reins from Hannah. “I hafta get into Natchez as soon as possible. Maybe I’ll see him when I get back.”

  Zeb saddled Sub
a and adjusted the stirrups to fit his long legs. He swung up on her and walked the horse around the yard, to the barn and back. Suba seemed calm and manageable, but Hannah grinned. “She’s just waiting for you to get out on the road.”

  As he turned Suba toward the gate, Zeb could feel the horse’s muscles tightening. She was ready to run.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Search Begins

  October 13, 1811

  Zeb nodded at Hannah and headed toward Natchez. Seems strange to be going someplace without Hannah, he thought.

  Suba wanted to run, and Zeb let her canter for short distances, but most of the time he kept her at a steady trot.

  The sandy road into Natchez was wide and flat with no deep carriage ruts. The soil was slightly damp, and he could see the hoofprints of horses that had passed that way before him. The trees cast early afternoon shadows, and open fields of cotton stretched as far as he could see on both sides of the road.

  Zeb paid the toll and crossed Catherine Creek. Suba started a little at the loud thumps of her hooves against the heavy wooden bridge timbers. Zeb pulled her in. “It’s all right, Suba. Nothin’ to worry about. Calm down. Atta girl.”

  Gradually the cotton fields gave way to a number of small houses clustered under the shade of ancient live oak trees. Not a weed or a blade of grass grew in the clean-swept yards.

  Just ahead of him, Zeb could see a row of large houses on each side of the street. Many of the houses were made of squared-off, flatboat logs, weathered dark brown. Some of the newer-looking houses were built of milled lumber, painted white. Trees bordered the wide road. He was in Natchez, the place his grampa called “the cultural center of the South.” It probably is, at least for the part of the South that Grampa knows, Zeb thought.

  At the first cross street, Zeb saw a sign nailed to a tree with an arrow pointing left. Suba didn’t want to stop. He had to keep turning her so he could read the sign.

  ABSOLUTE AUCTION

  horses

  EVERY TYPE AND BREED

  A FEW SELECT RACEHORSES

  OCTOBER 12, 1811

  TEXADA TAVERN, WASHINGTON AND WALL

  SUNRISE TO DARK

  There was no place he would be more likely to find his grampa than at a horse auction. Instead of going directly to King’s Tavern, he turned Suba to the left and trotted up Pine Street. Then, following more arrows, he turned to the right on Washington Street, heading toward the river.

  When Zeb got to Washington and Wall Streets, Texada Tavern was everything he had hoped it would be. It was the largest brick building he had ever seen. He was disappointed, though, not to find crowds of people milling around as they always do at a horse auction.

  There was plenty of evidence on the dirt road that many horses had been there. Could they have sold them all already?

  Zeb tied Suba to a rail and hurried into Texada Tavern. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. The barroom, off to one side, was already crowded, but it wasn’t boisterous like some of the stands on the Natchez Road. Men sat at tables, drinking and talking quietly. Others stood at a bar, drinking.

  Behind the dark wooden bar, a man in a white shirt with arm garters holding his sleeves back sloshed two glasses at a time back and forth in a tub of soapy water.

  Zeb stepped up to the bar. The bartender wiped the damp wood in front of Zeb with a wet cloth. “What can I get ya?”

  “Don’t want anything to drink. Want to find out about the horse auction.”

  “Horse auction?” the man said in a loud voice. He chuckled. “You’re late, boy. That was yesterday. You buyin’ or sellin’?”

  Zeb sagged against the bar. I’m a day late. I must’ve figured September for thirty-one days instead of thirty. Grampa could’ve come and gone. Now what?

  “I’m lookin’ for someone. Someone I’m sure would’ve been at the auction. Did you see a—”

  “Look,” the bartender said, picking up a wet glass and drying it with a towel, “I didn’t go to the auction. Never do. If he came in here, I might’ve seen him. But I doubt I’d remember.”

  Grampa wouldn’t have come in here for a drink, Zeb thought.

  Zeb was about to turn away when the bartender said, “You’re in luck, boy. See that man just came in? Over there with the big leather hat? That’s Dancey Moore. He buys and sells a lot of horses. If anyone’d know who was here, he would.”

  The bartender leaned over, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Just between you and me, boy, don’t do no buyin’ or sellin’ with him ‘less you got money to lose. He loves to take advantage of you Kaintucks.”

  Zeb looked down at his clothes. He wore a shirt and pants he had found in the throwaway box at Yowani, clean but ragged. He had no hat, and his borrowed boots were old and worn. I look like a Kaintuck for sure.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dancey Moore

  October 13, 1811

  Zeb stayed close to the dark walls as he moved over toward the man with the big leather hat. The man was now seated at a table, drinking and talking with someone who appeared to be a horse wrangler.

  The man with the big leather hat wiped the dust off the table in front of him and turned to the wrangler. “You get everything taken care of?”

  The wrangler leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. Drove those horses you bought over to the farm. You did pretty good this time without that old man biddin’ against you.”

  “No problems?”

  He shook his head. “Naw, just that family goin’ west. Still want their money back. Said that horse you sold ’em is too sick to pull a wagon.”

  “Man don’t know a sick horse from a healthy one shouldn’t buy at a horse auction.”

  “Says he’s gonna talk to the police constable.”

  “Won’t do him no good. Absolute auction. Buyer beware!”

  The horse wrangler didn’t look convinced. “You might wanna do somethin’, keep the constable from comin’ around. They’re livin’ in the wagon right now. They’re outta money. Said if they hafta sell the wagon for enough money to eat, they’ll dig one of them caves in the sand bluff to live in.”

  “Ha! That’ll take care of the problem. The only people who live in ’em caves got nothin’ to lose. They’re just a bunch of criminals, runaway slaves, renegade Indians.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Anytime a heavy wagon gets close to the edge of the bluff, some of those caves collapse. The police constable down in Natchez Under-The-Hill don’t even bother goin’ up there anymore. Those people move into a cave and we won’t hear from ’em again.”

  Zeb knew that his grampa wouldn’t have anything to do with men like these. Still, they might’ve seen him at the auction. He waited for a pause in their conversation. When another wrangler walked over, beat the dust out of his pants, and sat down with the two men, Zeb stepped forward. “Excuse me, sir? I wonder if I could talk with you for—”

  The man waved him away. “Don’t need no horse wranglers. Got all I need. Never hire Kaintucks if I can help it. Bone lazy and useless.”

  Zeb’s clenched his teeth. He had made fun of the way Kaintucks talk all of his life. But these people in Natchez thought he was one. He made himself relax. “I’m not lookin’ for a job, sir. I’m tryin’ to find my grampa. Thought you might’ve seen him yesterday during the horse auction.”

  One of the men sitting at the table poked the other. “Maybe he’s lookin’ fer that crazy old coot, chased Willie Jones up the street with a bullwhip.” They both laughed. They looked over at the man with the hat. “We didn’t tell you ‘bout that. Would’ve died laughin’.”

  Zeb could hardly breathe. An old man with a bullwhip? It sounded like Grampa. He knew that he had to be careful. Those men probably wouldn’t tell him a thing if they thought it would help him. He tried not to show how interested he was. “Old man chased Willie Jones with a whip?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” one of them replied. “It was down on the docks. Willie bought him a horse and
tried to load it onto a flatboat. You know how those ramps to the boats are pretty steep and slippery? That horse just wouldn’t go—”

  The other one interrupted. “Willie started pullin’ on that horse and whippin’ him with a long horse whip. The horse was screamin’ and dancin’ around, but he wouldn’t go down the ramp.”

  “Yeah, and then this old coot, must be a hundred years old, bald as a cannon ball—”

  The other one interrupted again. “He ain’t bald. Got one a’ them prison haircuts, shaved right down smooth. But you can see the white fuzz. It’s growin’ back.”

  “Anyway,” continued the first storyteller, “he climbed down off a big Conestoga-type cotton wagon and took the whip away from Willie, real gentle like. He had his left hand in his shirt like his arm was hurtin’. Anyway, he put Willie’s whip down on the ground and then he led the horse, nice as you please, down the ramp, talkin’ to it the way the Choctaw do. Everybody cheered.”

  “Then the old coot came up the ramp. Willie had his hand in his pocket ready to give him a coin. The old coot pulled out his own whip and chased Willie down the street with it. He picked off Willie’s hat without touchin’ his head and then he got him a couple of good licks with it, too. I saw the dust fly outta his britches. Ever’body cheered and laughed. Willie ain’t got too many friends.”

  Zeb closed his eyes. Thank you, Lord, he prayed.

  The men at the table were silent for a moment. One of them looked up at Zeb. “That crazy old man your grampa? Been in prison, has he? No wonder yer lookin’ fer him.” He poked the other man in the ribs. “Hope ya find him ‘fore Willie Jones does. That man’s mean as a snake. Got a little Monongahela in him.”

  Zeb wasn’t sure how much he should tell these men. The man with the big leather hat finally seemed to take some notice of Zeb. “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Zebulon D’Evereux, sir.”