Natchez Under-the-Hill

by Stan Applegate

  “I can’t take that! That’s a book your father gave you to get you ready for the college exams—”

  “I know. But I want you to have it. I told him I planned to give it to you. He was anxious to meet you…. But now I don’t think he can see anyone.”

  Zeb took the leather-bound book and held it in both hands, a priceless treasure. “Thank you,” he said. He put it carefully on the table near the fireplace and picked up the book he had for Hannah. “Hannah, I want you to have my other blank book, so you can continue to write. I noticed you were getting close to the end of the one I gave you.”

  Hannah took it from him and held it against her chest. She walked into the bedroom and came out with something behind her back. “I’ve been trying to decide if I should tell you about this. Now I think you should know. You should understand what I did and why I did it.”

  “Understand what you did?”

  She opened the book to the first page. “Listen,” she said, and began to read aloud. “I am glad that Zeb promised never to read this book unless I tell him he can. I doubt I ever will. I don’t want him to know that on the first night we met, I stole his horse—”

  “You stole Christmas? But … but …” Zeb sputtered, “that’s impossible! I would’ve awakened.”

  “When you’ve been with the outlaws for six months, you can tell when a man is sound asleep, especially if his mouth is wide open and he’s snoring. Even with all that racket, you men don’t wake up. The women are different … something to do with always listening for the babies.”

  She looked up at him shyly. “All I could think of after being with the outlaws was running away. So when you were asleep, I bunched up the blanket to make you think I was still there, then crept through the forest to Christmas. I couldn’t mount him. He’s too big. So I walked him until I found another tree lying on its side. I climbed on and rode him about an hour.”

  She took a deep breath. “Then I realized that without any money, I could never cross at the ferries. I couldn’t buy any grain for the horse or any food for me. And if an outlaw saw me, I wouldn’t have a chance. I turned around and brought him back, tied him to the limb, and came back into the clearing.

  “I was still pretty sure you were just another outlaw,” she continued. “You had two pistols and a rifle, and you were travelin’ on the Natchez Road alone. I thought I’d ride with you until we crossed the Tennessee. Then I’d really steal your horse.”

  Zeb stared at her, astounded. “When did you decide I wasn’t an outlaw? After we crossed the river?”

  “No,” she said. “It was before that.” She turned to a page of the book. “When I woke up the next morning, I was scared to death he would somehow know I took his horse. He would see that the horse was tied differently or something. Then he would just leave me in the forest. I lay there awake, watching him. He woke up and sat right up and started looking around. I got up and began to roll up the blanket. I wanted to be sure that he didn’t think I was helpless.

  Three rings of mushrooms had sprouted overnight in the mossy area where I had been sitting. I saw him sort of glance over them and then suddenly his head turned and he was staring at the rings of mushrooms and then staring at me. I know what people say: that fairies dance at night in the forest and wherever they do, rings of mushrooms grow. Everybody says it, but I didn’t think anyone really believed it.

  He was looking at me, his eyes wide, his mouth open. I just said, “Maybe I am and maybe I ain’t.”

  I decided he couldn’t be an outlaw if he still believes in fairies dancing in the woods.

  She closed the book and smiled up at Zeb.

  He looked at the book. “Hannah’s Diary,” he said.

  “It’s just private thoughts and memories, some good, some funny, but some bad, too. Putting ’em down on paper helps me, somehow.”

  Zeb was reminded once again of the scared little girl he had met in the forest. She seemed so happy now. He hoped that, somehow, the bad memories she was recording would fade away.

  He knew it was time for him to go.

  Zeb stood and shook hands with Dr. McAllister. Hannah’s mother hugged him and said quietly into his ear, “Thank you, Zeb. Thank you.”

  Nashoba threw his arms around Zeb. “As I told you once before, I am proud to call you ‘brother.’ When you come back, I’ll teach you how to play Ishtaboli and how to dance the Eagle Dance. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned in school.”

  Zeb laughed “Thank you, Nashoba. I hope that one day I can return the favor.”

  Zeb held out his hand to Hannah. She stepped toward him and threw her arms around his waist, her wet, teary face pressed against his chest. “Zeb,” she said, “I wish you were my brother.”

  He swallowed hard. “I guess after all we’ve been through, we’re almost like brother and sister.”

  “Thank you for bringing me home.”

  Zeb looked down at the top of her head and smiled. Her hair had already grown back from the ragged mop she had when he found her. It was straight and black and fell almost to her shoulders now.

  As he ran the back of his arm across his eyes, Hannah stepped back and looked up at him. Zeb picked up the book that Nashoba had given him.

  “It’s late,” he said, “and the patrol will be leaving very early tomorrow morning. I will say good night and good-bye. Dr. and Mrs. McAllister, thank you for letting me be a part of your family.”

  He turned to Nashoba. “I will take care of this book and return it when I get back.”

  He put his hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “Good-bye, Hannah.”

  Zeb turned, opened the door, and headed for his tent.

  December 20, 1811

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Homecoming

  When Zeb arose the next morning, it seemed that the entire village of Yowani was already awake. He could smell the sweet aroma of breakfast yams and pigeons baking in the fire.

  Zeb used the latrine and then washed his hands and face. The dragoons were already watering and feeding the horses to give them time to digest their food before the group started out. Zeb and Cracker Ryan fed and watered all seven of their horses. They tied them to the rail near the tents, ready to be tacked up for the journey north.

  They joined the soldiers and ate a quick breakfast with the Choctaw. The pigeons, baked in clay, were moist and tender. Zeb broke the clay shell and pulled at the meat, licking his fingers between each bite. He dug into the sweet potato, marveling at how the sweet of the potatoes and the salty flavor of the baked pigeons went well together. He had taken such things for granted in the past. Zeb licked the grease from his lips, savoring the taste.

  The dragoons had already moved their horses out to the entrance to the village, and Zeb and his grampa got their horses ready, then loaded Kapucha with baskets. The four draft horses were tacked up with bridles and lead lines. Grampa led the way on Andy with Zeb following on Christmas as they moved the horses toward the Nashville Road.

  At the entrance to the village stood a group of Choctaw women, their arms folded, their faces expressionless. Eight large pack baskets loaded with food were standing in front of them. The baskets were open at the top. Zeb could see yams and dried corn, a mixture of grains for the horses, and two baskets of roasted venison and rabbit from last night’s feast.

  The dragoon horses were already lined up near the entrance, tethered to the fence rail. Captain Morrison, the sergeant, and the men stood in front of the Miko. The captain bowed formally to the Miko, then turned and faced the villagers. “We thank you and the entire village for having us here and sharing your celebration with us,” he said in a loud voice. Then he smiled at the women standing near the saddlebags. “And in particular, we thank all of the women of the village who must have stayed up all night preparing these bags.”

  The Miko swept his arm toward the trail. “We hope that this will make it possible for you to travel north through Chickasaw country without having to hunt on their lands.” Captain Morrison moved
over to where Cracker Ryan was standing with Zeb.

  “Mr. Ryan,” he said, “the army is in serious need of transport. We want to rent those four draft horses of yours to carry army provisions from here for as long as the provisions last, probably to just this side of Franklin. What would be your charge for that service?”

  Zeb’s grampa replied, “I would consider it my patriotic duty, sir. There will be no charge.”

  The captain bowed his head slightly. “Excellent!” he said. “I will give you a document to sign later.” He then nodded to the sergeant. The soldiers lifted the baskets and placed them on the backs of the four draft horses. The baskets were connected in pairs, with straps and sheepskin pads so each horse could comfortably carry a basket on each side.

  Zeb heard a high-pitched whistle. He grinned. Only Hannah can whistle like that. They had said their good-byes last night. Now Hannah signaled him in the gray dawn.

  I’ve promised to come back, and Hannah knows I’ve never told her anything but the truth. That’s why she trusts me. But when will I be able to keep that promise?

  This time the sergeant organized the order of march. The sergeant and three of the mounted dragoons led the convoy. Behind them rode Cracker Ryan and Captain Morrison.

  Zeb followed on Christmas, with Kapucha on lead.

  Behind them rode four dragoons, each one leading a pack horse, and at the rear rode two more dragoons with guns at the ready.

  Captain Morrison nodded to the sergeant, who raised his hand and shouted, “Move out!”

  Except for short stops to water and feed the horses, and once for the men to eat pieces of the venison, they kept moving, always at a trot. By late afternoon, they had passed through Pigeon Roost. They stopped to camp at Line Creek, where Zeb and Hannah had first come across the army patrol. Captain Morrison estimated that they had covered nearly thirty-five miles that day. “It won’t be this easy every day,” he said.

  Zeb wondered what he meant when he said “easy.” That quick trot might be favored by the army, but it was sure hard on the rider. And he was glad that he had worked the big draft horses every day. He doubted they could take this pace otherwise.

  Zeb groaned as he lifted the saddle from Christmas. The big horse took a deep breath and exhaled, relieved to have the load lightened and the tight girth gone. Zeb untied the rolled-up tent and retrieved his blanket roll and the saddlebags from Kapucha. He put up the tent, then kneeled at the entrance flaps to spread the ground cloth and set his bedroll inside.

  As he backed out of the tent, he bumped into his grampa. “Zeb,” his grampa said, “Captain Morrison thinks that the army is goin’ to want a lot of horses in a hurry, maybe before the next year is out.”

  “But we won’t have any ready—”

  “That’s the point. I’ve been workin’ on a plan ever since I bought Christmas. But it’s late and I want to think more about it. We can talk about it tomorrow as we travel up the trail.” Zeb stretched out on his bed and pulled the blanket around him. He looked up at the canvas ceiling of the tent, softly lit by the waning moon.

  Zeb and his grampa awoke to the sound of heavy rain. They grinned when they realized the inside of the tent was dry.

  They joined the army mess and shared the food that the Choctaw had given them, thankful that they didn’t have to try to cook in the downpour. The cold venison tasted stronger than it had the night before. The group mounted and rode all day. Zeb and his grampa each used half of their new tent as a poncho, but it didn’t make any real difference. They were soon soaked to the skin by blowing rain.

  The second night after leaving Yowani when they stopped to camp, Zeb sat near the cook fire to hear his grampa’s idea. “The army is goin’ to need a lot of horses,” the old man said. “It’s no secret. Our country is havin’ a lot of problems with the English. They’ve sent troops up to Canada, and they have troops and ships down in Pensacola. They’re takin’ Americans off ships on the high seas. For them, the Revolutionary War of Independence was never really over.”

  “But Grampa, if they’re gonna need a lot of horses this comin’ year, we won’t have any ready to sell. Even if Mama and Josh were able to get back most of those year-old colts, we couldn’t—”

  “You’re right,” his grampa said.

  “So what’ll we do?”

  “We can go up to the Lexington area and buy their culls.”

  “Their culls!

  “That’s what Christmas was. I’m not talkin’ about culls in the usual sense. Those breeders up there are raisin’ horses mainly for horse racing. After a year, two at the most, if the horse doesn’t show any promise, they try to sell ’em as saddle horses.”

  “I doubt they’d make good saddle horses without a lot of training. Wrong temperament. They haven’t been trained for that. They’re used to runnin’ full out.”

  “Exactly!” his grampa exclaimed. “And for that reason, they never get much money for ‘em. And if they can’t sell ‘em, they put ’em down.”

  “So?”

  “I think we should go up to Lexington and look over the culls from the various breeders. Pick out suitable ones, offer a low but reasonable price, which is better than nothing, bring them back to the farm, and retrain them for the army!”

  “We’d hafta start right away—” Zeb stopped as another aftershock shook the ground.

  He and his grampa moved out to the center of the meadow away from the trees. When the temblor was over, they checked the seven horses. They had already calmed down. I wonder if the earthquake was felt up in Franklin. We’re getting mighty close, and we’re still feeling the aftershocks. I hope no one was hurt. Zeb sighed. Six more days to go.

  The convoy continued to feel aftershocks from the quake. Captain Morrison had warned them all, “As you ride, check the trees as well as the road. If you see one tree leaning against another, be prepared to get out of its way. You dragoons, break ranks, but get out of the way!”

  The group struggled to travel at least thirty miles a day, and Zeb was worried about the big draft horses. Although Zeb and Lonnie Champ had worked them hard for over a month back at Culpepper’s place, trying to get them into condition for the long trip, they were already showing signs of not being able to keep up with the army’s pace.

  As the convoy traveled on the Nashville Road, Chickasaw braves sometimes appeared out of the forest and watched them pass. At night, when the group had set up camp, a few of the older braves approached, seeming friendly. They told the dragoons how many sleeps it was to the next big water and warned them about dangerous bogs. Zeb felt that the Chickasaw simply wanted them to keep moving.

  In the group of Chickasaw watching them, there were often two or three braves about Zeb’s age. Sometimes they would stand at the forest’s edge and watch the men setting up camp. The next evening, after a long and tiring ride, Zeb unsaddled Christmas and tethered him in a small patch of grass. He was starting to put up his tent when some young braves suddenly appeared at his side.

  One of them pointed at Zeb’s little Spanish army shovel, still hanging on the saddle. Zeb untied the thongs and showed it to him. The brave passed it to the others and then handed it back. They didn’t seem to know what it was for.

  Zeb finished putting up the tent, then dug a trench around it with the little shovel. The brave who had shown so much interest put out his hand. Zeb handed him the shovel. The young man studied it, running his fingers along the edge. He knelt down and dug into the dirt. He stood and smiled at the others, then ran into the forest with the shovel held above his head.

  The other braves burst into laughter. Without thinking, Zeb, suddenly furious, ran after him. The brave he was chasing continued to laugh as he ran through the thick woods.

  The laughter reminded Zeb of what Nashoba had told him. For the Choctaw and the Chickasaw, there is no private property. Among the youth, if someone has something you like, you grab it and run. If he catches you, you give it back. No one thinks any less of you for taking it.

/>   The young brave stumbled, and Zeb leaped on him, knocking him to the ground. They wrestled for a moment, the shovel thrown to one side, forgotten. This is like wrestling with Nashoba, Zeb thought, but Nashoba is older and stronger and always wins. In this case Zeb was stronger and maybe a year older. The young brave suddenly relaxed and grinned up at him. Zeb got to his feet and offered his hand to the brave to help him up. The brave picked up the shovel and offered it to Zeb. They returned to the camp side by side.

  Captain Morrison met them as they approached the campsite. Cracker Ryan was standing behind him, glowering and slapping his coiled whip against his thigh. Captain Morrison spoke to Zeb in a low, angry voice. “That was very dangerous and foolish, Zeb. I couldn’t send one of the soldiers after you. We are committed to maintaining peace with the Chickasaw.”

  “I admit I went after him without thinking. But it’s all a game, Captain Morrison. I learned that from Nashoba and the other Choctaw. There are no hard feelings.”

  Captain Morrison looked at Zeb and the Chickasaw brave standing next to him. They were both smiling. The young Chickasaw had his hand on Zeb’s shoulder.

  “It wasn’t as much of a game as you may think, Zeb. Four of those young braves started after you two. One of them had pulled a stone hatchet from his belt. Your grandfather snapped that whip of his and held up his hand. The message was clear. ‘Let the two of them work it out.’”

  Zeb stared at the faces of the other braves. They were not smiling.

  Captain Morrison locked his eyes with Zeb’s. “Remember, the Chickasaw and the Choctaw are very different. It worked out this time, Zeb,” Captain Morrison continued. “I want you to know, however, if something like this happens again, I will not make any hostile move against the Chickasaw. You will be completely on your own.”

  Before Zeb had time to think over what had just occurred, the earth began to shake again. The convoy automatically moved away from leaners and waited for the shaking to stop. The oldest of the Chickasaw braves motioned to Captain Morrison, pointing at the ground in confusion. Captain Morrison shrugged, his hands open. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. I wonder if they understand what a shrug means, Zeb thought. Can they tell he is trying to tell them we don’t know what causes it either?