Natchez Under-the-Hill

by Stan Applegate

  The editor stood and leafed through papers on his desk. “Nope, nothing from Nashville or Franklin,” he said.

  “What do you hear about the steamboat bein’ built?”

  “Pittsburgh paper says it’ll leave this month. If it ever reaches Natchez, I plan to be on the dock interviewing everybody.”

  Zeb left the Weekly Chronicle and went back to Mr. Yadkin’s shop to leave the tent deposit. Now that the haze had lifted from the river, he could see the reefed sails of a few ships through the window of the sail maker’s shop. Those are the first oceangoing vessels I’ve ever seen, he said to himself.

  The sail maker put Zeb’s golden eagle in a metal box. “That’s a British merchant ship,” he said, pointing to the tallest one. “I’d stay away from that vessel if I were you. One of the officers and two sailors off that ship came in here this morning to ask about sails, and then they went next door to the ship’s chandler and asked for prices of supplies. But they didn’t seem to be really interested so much in supplies as they were in seeing the dock area. We saw ’em talking with some of the street kids who hang around the docks, and we both got a bad feelin’ about ‘em. Don’t know what they’re up to.”

  He paused and stared out the open doors toward the docks. “But there is a possibility. They could be paying some of the locals to form a press gang.”

  “What are press gangs?”

  “Press gangs look for young men like you, young men who are strong and able.”

  “For what?”

  “If a press gang caught you, you’d be declared a deserter from the Royal Navy. You’d spend the rest of your life on board one ship or another.”

  “A deserter! I could easily prove I was never a British seaman!”

  “Who would you prove it to? The people who have pressed you into service?”

  Zeb paused. “But why do they do it?”

  Yadkin sat back at the table and began sewing again. “Some British seamen are deserting. The conditions aboard ship are terrible. Discipline is extremely harsh, and the men haven’t been paid in months. The Royal Navy, the most powerful in the world, is suddenly weak for lack of adequate ship’s crews.”

  “So they round up a lot of Kaintucks who don’t know a thing about ships?”

  “Sure. They’re after young men they can train. They also stop our merchant ships on the high seas. They take every able-bodied sailor off those ships, claiming that they’re English deserters. Most of the men they press into service are American men with wives and families back here. It’s caused a lot of grief.”

  The sail maker paused. “If you go down to the docks, watch out. You might get far more excitement than you bargained for.”

  When Zeb left Mr. Yadkin’s, he could see the top of the masts of the sailing ship over the roof. In spite of the sail maker’s warning, Zeb couldn’t resist taking a closer look at the square rigger.

  He didn’t see any reason to be afraid. The ship was anchored in the deep part of the river, some distance from the floating docks. There appeared to be little activity aboard. Several men struggled with their oars against the river current as they rowed a large boat laden with barrels and boxes to the ship.

  I wonder, he thought, what it’d be like to go to sea, to be a merchant seaman. They must see some wonderful places.

  He wrinkled his nose at the dead fish stink of the docks.

  A number of men were standing on the last dock. They seemed to be busy with the boxes and barrels and cloth sacks stacked up for transfer to the ship. Zeb pushed through them and looked over the edge into the well of a boat that was identical to the one being rowed out to the ship. The large rowboat was almost filled, and the crew was about to shove off. The man in charge looked up at him and smiled. “Want to see what a real ship is like? You can go out with us. We’ll bring you back after they unload the cargo.”

  Zeb noticed the smirks on the faces of some of the sailors. He had done enough betting on horse races to know that they knew something he didn’t know. As much as he would have liked to see the ship, he decided not to go with them. He shook his head and stepped away from the edge of the dock, backing into one of the men standing there. “Sorry,” he said.

  Suddenly, two strong arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning Zeb’s arms to his sides. “Hey!” Zeb shouted. “What’s going on?” When he was lifted off his feet, he kicked wildly. Another man grabbed his legs and tied them together. He was thrown facedown on the dock. Someone knelt on the middle of his back and tied his hands behind him.

  A voice from the boat called to the man kneeling on his back. “Not too ruddy tight, man. If ‘e loses a hand, ‘e’s no use to us. We won’t get a farthin’ for ‘im.”

  The man slightly loosened the rope around Zeb’s wrists.

  The voice from the boat said, “We don’t want to take any of the gentry, either. They can make it a bit difficult for us. That one isn’t dressed like a Kaintuck.”

  He called up to Zeb. “What’s your name, lad? Where’re you from?”

  Zeb could hardly breathe. “My name,” he croaked, “is Zebulon D’Evereux. Let me go!”

  The man kneeling on his back roared with laughter. “Zebulon D’Evereux?” he shouted. Zeb sagged. I know that voice. The man gave Zeb’s side a vicious kick and flipped him over on his back. Zeb looked up into the face of Sergeant Scruggs!

  Zeb looked from one side to the other, hoping that some of the other men on the dock would help him. They were all grinning at him. They’re all part of it!

  “I never would’ve recognized you,” the sergeant said. He shouted down to the men in the boat, “You can leave. This one’s mine. When I get through with him, he won’t be of no use to nobody.”

  When the sergeant pulled his foot back to kick him again, Zeb rolled out of reach and then kicked at the sergeant’s legs with his bound feet. The other men stood by and laughed. The sergeant grinned. “Gonna try to fight me?” He pulled his foot back again.

  An explosive crack made the sergeant jump. He whirled around, grasping the back of his leg. Then he bent his knees, crouched, ready to fight, his face in a ferocious grin.

  The only thing that makes a noise like that is a whip, Zeb thought. But how can Grampa be down here? Then he heard another familiar voice. “Sergeant! You mess with my partner and you mess with me! You saw how he was ready to fight ya, even tied and bound. That’s what a partner of Lonnie Champ is like. We don’t never give up.”

  Zeb rolled on his side. Lonnie Champ stood on the dock coiling a bullwhip. He smiled at Zeb. “I been practicin’. I ain’t as good as yer granddad, but I kin teach the sergeant how ta dance.”

  One of the men who had been helping the sergeant began to move toward Lonnie Champ. The flatboat fighter pointed a finger at the approaching man. “I’m a bear!” he shouted. “I’m a alligator! I’m a cottonmouth snake! See that feather there in my hat? I’m cock o’ the walk. No man has ever whupped me, in fair fight or foul, and that includes the sergeant here.” He lowered his voice to a menacing growl. “You take one more step and it’ll be yer last.”

  The man stepped back. Lonnie Champ lifted his chin toward Zeb. “You men! Untie my partner, while I deal with the sergeant here.”

  A couple of men moved toward Zeb.

  Lonnie Champ snapped the whip again and the sergeant howled, holding on to his arm this time. Lonnie pointed toward Levee Street. “You best start runnin’, Sergeant. Don’t worry. I’ll be right behind you. I’m gonna teach you how to dance. Gonna do it every time you mess with my partner.”

  The sergeant sidled past Lonnie Champ, watching the whip. When he saw the whip arm move back, he ran off the dock with Lonnie behind him, snapping the whip at his britches.

  One of the men in the boat yelled up to the other members of the gang, “Quick, bring ‘im to the edge of the dock and we’ll take ‘im to the ship.”

  Zeb heard a noise behind him. He turned his head. It was Mr. Yadkin. “Untie that man,” the sail maker ordered in a low, angry
voice that demanded to be obeyed.

  The man in charge of the boat shouted, “Don’t listen to that old man. Just sits around all day, sewing sails.”

  One of the men on the dock shook his head. “We gotta live here. You don’t. Ain’t nobody wants to get on the wrong side of Lonnie Champ.”

  The man in the boat cursed and then ordered the sailors at the oars to get underway. “We best return to the ship and tell the cap’n. He’ll probably pull up anchor,” he said. “That sail maker’ll go for the constable. We’ll be out of business.”

  Zeb could hear the man in the boat giving orders. “Shove off.” Then moments later, “On the port side…. Stroke! Now all together, stroke!” Zeb heard the creak and groan of oars in leather oarlocks as the sailors struggled against the current.

  The men on the docks untied Zeb and stepped back, watching Mr. Yadkin. He scowled at the three men. “You can go,” he ordered, “but if I see you down at the docks again, I’ll notify the constable. Press gangs are illegal in this country. You will be charged with kidnapping.”

  As the men slipped away into the alleys between the riverfront buildings, Zeb stood up and rubbed his wrists. “Thank you, Mr. Yadkin,” he said. “I should’ve listened to you and stayed away from that ship. I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

  “You were very lucky, young man.”

  “I know. I can’t thank you enough,” Zeb said. He looked back at the dock, shaken. “Why isn’t the government doing anything about press gangs?”

  You men take one more step and it’ll be yer last.

  “They say that nothing short of war will stop it. But the U.S. Navy isn’t powerful enough to challenge the Royal Navy.”

  As they turned to walk back to the sail maker’s shop, Zeb was suddenly overwhelmed by what might have happened. “Why doesn’t the constable arrest the press gangs? Why doesn’t he go out to the ship right now and force them to release their captives?”

  “The constable and his deputy would have no way to force the captain to give up the men,” the sail maker replied. “Look, Zeb, they’ve already got men in the riggin’, gettin’ those sails ready to up-anchor and leave this port.”

  Zeb nodded, then looked up the alley where the press gang had gone. “What about the locals workin’ as a press gang? Can’t the constable arrest ‘em?”

  “I’m going now to talk to him. I should’ve talked to him earlier about my suspicions. But at least now, I know who the British sailors recruited into the press gang. The problem is getting proof. Those men on the docks can claim they were simply innocent bystanders forced to comply with the British. They did untie you….”

  “I sure was lucky,” Zeb said, “that you and Lonnie Champ came along.”

  “I’m not so sure it was luck. I got the feeling Lonnie Champ’s been watching out for you. He called you his partner, didn’t he?”

  “I guess we are partners,” Zeb said. He thanked Mr. Yadkin again for his help. “Your voice sure sounded different when you told those men to untie me,” he said.

  “I was bos’n—the officer in charge of the deck hands—in the Continental Navy and later when the U.S. Navy was formed. You don’t forget how to talk to sailors.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Closed Carriage

  October 26, 1811

  Zeb said good-bye to Mr. Yadkin, then went back to where Maggie was tethered and rode the little horse back along Levee Street. When he reached Silver Street, Lonnie Champ was waiting for him. “I don’t think the sergeant’ll bother ya any more today,” he said. “But you better keep an eye out for ‘im whenever ya come down here.”

  Zeb slipped off Maggie and offered his hand. “I want to thank you, Mr. Champ, for your help today.”

  “Zeb, I meant it when I called you my partner. Yer the only one knows I’ve got two broken ribs, and you ain’t told nobody. But it won’t be long ‘fore someone’ll find out, and then I’ll need a partner for sure. I could teach you how to fìght—”

  “Wouldn’t it be best for you to get away from here, until your ribs heal?”

  “Where would I go? I ain’t got much money. Those men what left me for dead, that mornin’ ya found me? They took all I had from bettin’ on my fights. Once these ribs heal, I’ll head back north on the Nashville Road and pick up another flat-boat. But right now, I jes gotta lie low.”

  “Mr. Champ … Lonnie,” Zeb said. “I’ve got an idea. I’ll be back in a few days and we can talk about it. You still in that tavern of Dancey Moore’s?”

  “Yeah. He lets me stay fer free, if I kin keep the peace…. Ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout kickin’ me out since I stuck up fer you, neither. Usually jes me lookin’ at them what’s causin’ trouble in Moore’s tavern is enough, but if somebody decides to find out if I kin fight, I’m done fer.”

  “Leave your things with Mr. Yadkin. If what I’m thinkin’ about works out, we’ll want to leave here without anybody payin’ much attention.”

  Zeb mounted the little horse again and rode up Silver Street toward Foley’s in Natchez. As he rounded the corner near Foley’s, he was surprised not to see Hannah waiting impatiently for him. But he knew he was a lot later than he had said he would be. He slipped off Maggie and tethered her to the rail. She must still be inside, he thought. It is getting a bit chilly out here.

  He went in and looked around the store. She was nowhere in sight. He looked outside and suddenly realized Hannah’s horse was no longer tethered to the rail.

  Zeb approached Mr. Foley. “Have you seen a girl in here … dressed like a boy, short hair—”

  “You asking about Hannah McAllister? She was here for a long time.” He pointed to a chair. “Sat over there, waiting for somebody, looking over that book with the fashions and patterns. She had a notebook with her and was writing in it the last time I saw her.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “A carriageload of women came in, and I lost sight of her. When I looked up again, she was gone.”

  Zeb ran outside and looked up and down the street. He ran over to the next block and then circled the block around Foley’s. Then he came back into the general store and sat down where Hannah had been sitting. He looked at the fashion book she had left on the floor. A piece of paper was sticking out. He pulled it out of the book. “Zeb” was written in large letters on it. He turned it over.

  Something has come up. I am all right. I just need to follow someone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

  Hannah

  Zeb jumped up and ran to the door, looking up and down the street. Still nothing. All he could do was wait.

  He was leafing through the book when she came cantering up to Foley’s. He ran outside and was about to shout at her, but she quickly shook her head. It reminded him of how they learned to communicate with no words at all on their trip down the Natchez Road. Neither said anything until Zeb was mounted and they were moving up the street toward home. “I know I must’ve worried you,” Hannah said in a shaky voice, “but I just had to follow them.”

  “Follow who? Are you all right?”

  “I think I might’ve seen some of the Mason gang—the outlaws I was with.”

  “Here in Natchez?”

  “A fancy closed carriage, black with a family crest on the doors, pulled up in front of Foley’s. Five women got out. They were wearing beautiful clothes. The driver of the carriage looked so much like Noah, the head of the Mason gang, that I went over to the window to get a better look. He was all dressed up, but he looked like Noah and he was yelling at those horses like him, too.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t want to get too close, in case they might recognize me. There was one who looked a little like Trudy, but she walked right by and didn’t even notice me.”

  “Maybe you were mistaken.”

  “Maybe I was. They only had three women with babies and Elizabeth when I was with them. Now there are four women and one that looks like Elizabeth. If it is the outlaws, they must’ve kidna
pped somebody else on the way back. Anyway, when they left, I followed ‘em. They drove down a little side street off of Jefferson. I caught up with ’em in time to see the carriage turn into the circular drive of a huge white house.”

  “A house like that’d cost a fortune and so would a good closed carriage.”

  “Yeah, but the Mason gang had plenty of money.”

  “From robbin’ Kaintucks?”

  “No. From merchants, who had horses and sometimes thousands of dollars in gold coins with ‘em. The gang knew that lots of merchants don’t trust the banks.”

  “How’d the outlaws manage to carry that much money?”

  “They always buried most of it. Lots of nights I’d hear ’em talk about digging it up and living like rich planters.”

  Hannah sighed. “I can’t be sure it was them,” she said. “Let’s not tell my mama about it. It’d worry her a lot.”

  They rode on in silence for a while. Zeb told her about the press gang and Lonnie Champ saving his life again.

  After a few moments Zeb said, “I’m gonna ask your parents if Lonnie can stay at your house. That bedroom I’m in has two beds. Maybe he can share it with me. He has a couple of broken ribs and will be in real serious trouble if anyone ever finds out.”

  “Maybe my father can take a look at those ribs, tell him what to do.”

  They rode quietly for a while. About halfway to Washington, Zeb spoke.

  “Hannah, why are your friends in your class actin’ so strange? Are you and Katie leavin’ them out?”

  Hannah looked surprised. “No. Mama thinks it’s just my Choctaw boys’ clothes, but I can’t tell her the truth. When I invited ’em to come over to the house, one of them said that her mama doesn’t want her to visit back and forth like we used to do.” Hannah looked up at Zeb, her eyes moist. “I think it’s ‘cause of what happened to me and ‘cause of the color of my skin.”

  “Oh, Hannah!” Zeb cried out. “People who talk like that are stupid! Do you know what Grampa says when someone talks like that? ‘If you’ve got three horses just alike, except that one is white, one is black, and one is bay, which one is the best?’ The other man will always say, ‘The color of the horse don’t make no difference.’ ‘Exactly,’ my grampa says.”