Zeb checked carefully to be sure that the coins were U.S. money, not Spanish or French. He lifted his head. “I’m not gonna change my mind,” he said.
Zeb decided to leave the horse at King’s Tavern for the night. He didn’t like all the interest in Suba. If they’re willing to pay a thousand dollars for the horse, what else would they be willing to do? He rode Suba back through the dock area and up Silver Street to Natchez.
He headed north along the river bluff until he saw the big white house on the hill. Turning right on Jefferson, he suddenly stopped Suba and turned her back to a building on one of the corners. The sign on the window said Natchez Weekly Chronicle. Zeb noted where he was and then let Suba continue on to King’s Tavern.
At the stable, Zeb pulled the sweat-stained yellow card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to one of the stablemen. “I’d appreciate it,” he said, “if you’d water her and give her some feed in about an hour. She’s been runnin’ hard.”
The man looked up at him, holding on to the bridle. “She’s a lot calmer than when ya left here. Expected to see ya walkin’ back on yer own two feet.”
Zeb slipped off Suba. When he started to take off her saddle, the stableman stopped him. “We’ll do all that.” He ran his hand down Suba’s long wet neck. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she? We’ll be sure to wash ‘er down and give ‘er a good brushin’.”
Zeb marveled at life in Natchez. He had never had anyone brush and comb his horse for him. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
He went on foot back to the river and down the cobblestone road to Natchez Under-the-Hill to spend the evening. He had heard a lot about this place. Letters published in his uncle’s newspaper in Franklin made it sound like the worst place in the Mississippi territory, maybe the worst place in the whole United States. One person, returning to Franklin, had written that there was “Natchez Proper” and “Natchez Improper.” And Mr. King had just warned him about the dangers that afternoon.
Zeb, of course, was intrigued.
CHAPTER SIX
Natchez Under-the-Hill
October 14, 1811
Early the next morning, Zeb rode to the top of Silver Street and looked down at the river and the taverns along its edge. Dancey Moore had said his grampa would be at the docks in Natchez Under-The-Hill very early. Zeb didn’t really believe him, but he couldn’t take a chance of missing his grampa.
In the early light, the river port had a sad, tattered, morning-after look. The mist from the big river flowed up the side streets like a dirty gray curtain hastily pulled against the rising sun. Zeb shivered in the cold, wet air.
It had been so appealing last night: the aroma of fried fish and his first taste of hot, spicy jambalaya; riverboat music on homemade fiddles; and men’s raucous, drunken singing.
Now, pigs pushed their urgent noses through the garbage pile just outside a kitchen door, the acrid odor of pig excrement mixing with the stench of rotting fish heads and crawfish shells. A woman leaned over a balcony on the third floor, emptying a chamber pot onto the alley below.
Zeb dismounted and led Suba down the slippery cobblestone street. He ran his hand down her smooth neck, the long muscles rippling under his hand as she turned her head toward him. He could feel her soft nostrils and her warm breath against his cheek.
Except for the woman on the balcony, not a soul seemed to be awake. Zeb looked back over his shoulder, sensing that someone was watching him. There was no one in sight.
He was beginning to wonder if he should have come down here to the docks alone. The only sound he could hear was the clopping of Suba’s hooves on the cobblestones. He listened carefully, as alert as he had been on the Natchez Road, walking with one hand on the pistol stuck in his belt.
A low groan came from the alley to his left. He stopped and looked. Someone was lying in the alley. Probably just a drunk sleeping it off, he thought. When he stepped closer, he gasped. Even though the man was lying on his back, Zeb could see that he was huge. Larger even than the sergeant. He had a mass of honey-colored hair and a shaggy mustache of the same color that almost covered his mouth. He was holding his chest and moaning.
The man opened his eyes and stared at Zeb for a moment. “Hey there, boy,” he groaned. “Give us a hand. Jumped by six. Left me for dead.” He lifted his head. “Give us a hand, boy.”
Zeb looked down at the man, wondering if it wouldn’t be wise just to ignore him and move on. Maybe he wasn’t hurt at all. Maybe he was part of one of Dancey Moore’s games.
The man looked up at him again. “Come on there, boy! Give us a hand.”
Zeb stepped closer with one hand on his pistol. He could see the dried blood on the man’s face and on the backs of his hands. There was no doubt he’d been in a fight.
Zeb tied Suba to a rail and pushed the pistol back in his belt. He reached down with both hands to the man’s outstretched arm. At first, it seemed impossible to budge him. Finally, the man got up on his knees and then struggled to his feet, groaning and holding on to his side.
He towered over Zeb. His clothes were damp with whiskey and blood. He looked down at Zeb and his pistol. “You plannin’ to shoot me?”
“I ain’t made up my mind yet. Everybody says you can’t be too careful down here.”
Zeb guided him to the horse. “Do you think you can mount?”
The man shook his head. “No,” he said, “don’t think so. Think I got a broken rib or two. But I kin hold on to the horse with one hand, if you’ll hold me up with the other.”
Zeb positioned himself on the other side of the big man and they made their way through the alley behind the taverns toward a small tavern at the river’s edge. The front of the tavern faced the water. A row of molasses barrels stood at the back, near a pile of staves and barrel hoops ready to be assembled.
The big man leaned over and opened his mouth to whisper to Zeb. The sour, sick smell of his breath made Zeb turn his head away. “You get me in there,” the big man said, “with nobody bein’ the wiser, and I’ll make it worth yer while.” They got to the back of the tavern without seeing anyone. Zeb tied Suba to a post. He looked around. “Where’s your horse?” he whispered.
The big man shook his head. “Don’t you know nothin’, boy?” he said in a loud whisper. “I don’t got no horse. Don’t need one. I work the flatboats. I’m cock o’ the walk and don’t you ferget it! Ain’t nobody can whup me in a fair fight.”
The man leaned against the doorway and moaned. “Come on, boy,” he whispered. “I ain’t got all day.”
Zeb helped the man through the back door of the tavern and up the stairs. When they reached the landing, the man staggered against the wall, knocking a picture to the floor. “Can’t you be more quiet, boy?” he hissed.
He put his hand inside his shirt. Zeb stepped back, his hand on his pistol. He knew that the Kaintucks on the Natchez Road carried their knives or their guns inside their shirts. The man grinned at him and pulled out a big brass key. “You’re smart to be careful, boy. You’ll live longer.” He handed the key to Zeb. “That door over there, lad.” He gestured wildly. He could have meant any one of three rooms. “And do be quiet about it,” he said.
When Zeb headed for the door that led to the front room, the one that hung over the river, the big man grabbed Zeb by the back of his shirt. “Not that one, you fool! You go in that one, yer never seen again!”
Zeb opened the next door and led the man into the room. The man staggered over to the bed, turned around, and fell on it. He was lying on his back, his arm still clutched to his chest, his face in a grimace. Suddenly, his arm relaxed and fell to his side. He seemed to be unconscious or already in a deep sleep. Zeb closed the door, locked it from the outside, and pushed the key under the door.
He took the back stairs to the alley where he had left Suba. A police constable was standing next to her. “This your horse?” the constable asked.
“No, sir,” Zeb said, smiling. “Belongs to a friend. I have a letter of authorization r
ight here with me—”
“What’s your name, lad?”
“I’m Zebulon D’Evereux, sir, and this here is Suba.”
The constable glared at him, and Zeb’s smile faded. He could barely speak above a whisper. “What’s the matter?”
The constable reached over and pulled the pistol from Zeb’s belt. With the other hand he took out a sheet of paper.
The man staggered against the wall, knocking a picture to the floor.
“Zebulon D’Evereux, I arrest you on suspicion of kidnapping. Put your hands behind your back.”
“Kidnapping!” he cried out. “Are you talkin’ about Hannah? I didn’t kidnap her! She came with me.”
The constable nodded. “So you admit it. Turn around and put your arms behind you.”
Zeb turned around. “I found her on the Natchez Road. She ran away from the Mason gang. She—”
“Be quiet!” The constable tied a leather thong around Zeb’s wrists. “You’ll have your chance in court.” He pushed Zeb ahead of him.
“Wait!” Zeb shouted, pulling frantically at the leather thong on his wrists. He had heard terrible stories about the jail up in Nashville. This one couldn’t be any better. “Please don’t put me in jail. I haven’t done anything wrong!”
The constable pulled the thong tighter. “That’s for the magistrate to decide,” he growled.
Zeb looked back at Suba. “But what will happen to the horse?
You can’t just leave that horse there. She belongs to Hannah….”
The constable shoved him forward. “You should have thought about that before you decided to kidnap a child for ransom.”
As they turned the corner, Zeb pleaded with him again. “Just look in my shirt pocket,” he shouted. “I have a letter authorizing me to ride Suba. It was signed by Hannah’s father yesterday.”
They looked up and found themselves face to face with the sergeant. “Well!” the sergeant said. “You’ve found the little varmint. You leave him here with me, Constable, and you’ll have a confession within the hour.”
Zeb tugged furiously at the thongs tied around his wrists. “You can’t leave me with him! He wants to kill me.”
The constable yanked on the thongs making them even tighter. “You be quiet! That’s my last warning!” He turned to the sergeant. “There’s no need for you to do anything. He already confessed.”
Zeb yanked his hands down, trying to break the rawhide. “I didn’t confess!” he shouted. “I told you that she came with me. I found her on the trail, she….”
The constable grabbed Zeb’s chin and forced him to look at him. “I told you to be quiet. You’ll have plenty of time to talk when you go before the magistrate.”
“But the sergeant is—”
“I told you, not one more word!”
The sergeant walked along with them as they moved toward the end of the street. “Just turn him over to me and you won’t even hafta worry about a trial,” he said.
The constable stopped and looked at the sergeant. “Just what is your interest in all of this, Sergeant? You have been drummed out of the army. You have no official status here. If you are after a reward, I will testify that you and Dancey Moore are the ones who made the official complaint and showed us how to find him.”
He looked at Zeb. “A tall, lanky boy, with a lot of shaggy hair, riding a black horse, due to come down here first thing this morning.”
He turned back to the sergeant. “Now, please go about your business. I will take care of the prisoner.”
The constable yanked Zeb around and pushed him through a doorway in a brick building that backed up against the sandy bluff. The constable looked at Zeb with disgust. “I’ve only got one cell left. It’s for drunks and barroom brawlers. You’ll be alone for now, but you’ll probably have company tonight. It’s too good for a kidnapper, but that’s where you’re going, my boy.”
After untying the leather thong from around Zeb’s wrists, the constable opened the heavy wooden door. Zeb tried to run past him but the man grabbed him around the neck and gave him a final hard shove into the room. He slammed the door.
Zeb tripped and slid across the slippery stone floor to a wall. He could not see a thing. There were no windows, nor light of any kind. He sat up and leaned against the wall, feeling the damp stones against his back. He put his hand on the floor. What made it so slippery? He sniffed his hand and gagged, wiping his hand over and over again on his pants.
He listened. He could hear scratching quite near him. He reached out his hand and ran it down the rough stones of the wall to the floor. His hand touched a furry body. He screamed, snatching his hand away. He stood up and stomped the floor around him. Rats! The place was full of rats!
Zeb moved carefully against the wall to see how large the cell was. Turning, he walked along the second wall, which was also stone, with the big wooden door in the middle.
The third wall was stone and mortar, but it was dripping wet. He paced along that wall. Must be about twelve feet long. When he touched the next wall, he was surprised. It was dirt! The room had been cut into the side of the bluff.
He had noticed that the bluff was that same strange, coarse, loamy sand that he and Hannah had seen the last several days on the Natchez Road. He recalled Dancey Moore’s men saying that people dug caves in the sandy bluffs and lived in them. Maybe I can dig my way out of this place. He ran his hand along the wall. It was smooth. No gouged-out places. The drunk prisoners are probably kept here until they sleep it off. No need to try to scratch their way out.
He slid back down to the floor. How could they think I’d kidnap Hannah? What am I gonna do? What will happen to Suba? If Grampa is alive, he doesn’t know that McPhee’s men were following us to Natchez. I’ve gotta find him before they do.
He stood up and walked from one side of the cell to the other, dragging one foot, trying to see if there was anything in the room he could use to dig out the wall.
The door latch creaked. Zeb was about to complain about the lack of minimal necessities when he heard the constable shout, “Sergeant! What are you doing there? You have no business in this jail. If I find you in here again, I’ll throw you into a cell. Now, get out!”
“Just a matter of simple justice,” the sergeant replied, moving away.
The constable opened the door, letting in a little light from the hallway. He handed Zeb a chamber pot. “You’ll need this,” he said. “I’ll have something for you to eat in a little bit. I’m beginning to wonder about all of this. What is the sergeant’s interest, anyway?”
Zeb was so grateful for the dim light from the open door, he hoped he could keep the constable talking.
“He’s after revenge,” Zeb said. “He blames me for what happened to his hand.” Zeb thought that the constable looked a little less hostile than before. “Listen,” Zeb said, “I am not a kidnapper.” He reached into his shirt. “Take a look at the paper I have. It was written by Hannah’s father yesterday.”
The constable shook his head. “It wouldn’t make any difference. It’s not for me to decide. The sergeant has sworn that you are the kidnapper of Hannah McAllister. Dancey Moore told us how to find you. You’ll have to go before the magistrate. He won’t be here for a couple of days.” He was about to close the door when he turned and said, “I’m sorry to tell you that when I went back to get the horse to stable it as evidence, it was gone.” He closed the big door and left Zeb in the dark once more.
Zeb held the pot in his two hands. If he could have, he would have ripped it in half. He leaned back against the wall and slid once more to the floor. Now what’ll I do? The sergeant already has Suba, and even if I can dig out of here, it’ll probably take hours. I’m sorry, Hannah. I never should’ve raced Suba. I never should’ve brought her down here.
He put his hand on the damp, slippery floor and stood back up. I’ve gotta try it.
Zeb took the chamber pot and felt his way back to the sandy wall. I’ll have to hurry or it’ll be too late.
After he had scraped through the hard-packed crust, he found the earth soft and easy to move. He dug with the pot until he had created a fairly large hole. He knew he couldn’t continue straight back; at some point, he had to turn and dig around the stone wall. But maybe he would just emerge from the sandy bank into another cell. Are there cells on either side of mine?
He tried to remember the entrance to the building, the passageway to the cells, and the little turn to this cell. The wall on the left side facing the door, he remembered, is open to the passageway. I ought to be able to dig around it.
He moved along the dirt wall until he was standing next to the stone wall. Then he got down on his hands and knees and started to dig again, careful not to bang the pot against the wall. The moisture in the earth seemed to hold it together.
He dug as fast as he could, throwing the moist sand behind him into the dark cell. It worked all right until his head and shoulders were inside the tunnel. Then he had to scoop out the sand and crawl backward to empty the pot. That slowed him down, but he kept at it until his arms ached. He was just creeping back in the tunnel when he heard a soft thunk and felt the vise-like grip of heavy, wet sand on his lower back. The entrance to the tunnel had caved in!
His first instinct was to throw himself backward, but he couldn’t move. He patted the roof of the tunnel with his hands. That part was still open.
Slowly … slowly, he told himself. Any sudden movement can bring the whole tunnel down on top of me. Keep calm. He breathed deeply but carefully, thankful that there was still some air in the tunnel. He pushed his hands against the tunnel floor, twisting his body from side to side. As he wriggled backward, he reached out for the chamber pot, dragging it with him.
The dirt held. The saddle of sand felt lighter and lighter. With one more twist, he wrenched his body out of the tunnel and fell back in his cell. He kept his head down, his eyes closed, carefully brushing the damp sand from his face. He turned over and sat on the damp cell floor, gasping for breath.
Natchez Under-the-Hill Page 4