Washington, Mississippi Territory
October 13, 1811
Zeb awoke on a barn floor in front of a horse stall to find Hannah squatting next to him, poking him in the ribs. She was smiling, but her eyes were red and teary. He jumped up, dusting the straw off his pants. “You all right?” he whispered.
She nodded and began to speak, but he interrupted her.
“How long was I asleep?” he whispered. “I’ve got to leave for Natchez right away….”
“You haven’t been asleep long. I’m sorry I took a while to come back,” Hannah said. “I shouldn’t have left you to take care of the horses alone. But Mama and Father and I had so much to talk about.
She headed toward the door. “C’mon,” she called. “My parents want to meet you.”
As they neared the house, Hannah’s mother hurried toward them. She wore a white cotton dress, drawn in at the waist and almost reaching her ankles. Her long black hair was pulled into a single braid down her back. She looked a lot like Hannah, with her fawn-colored skin and big brown eyes and with the same tall, erect way of walking.
Hannah almost skipped as she ran to her. She yelled to Zeb, “C’mon!”
How very young she seems now that she’s home, he thought, much younger than her eleven years. After six months with an outlaw gang, it’s a wonder she can be so happy.
He lifted his nose and smelled something wonderful cooking. He felt a rush of saliva in his mouth.
Hannah’s mother reached out and took Zeb’s hands in hers. She was smiling, but her eyes were red like Hannah’s. “I want to apologize to you, Zebulon. We didn’t mean to ignore you when you arrived. It was just such a shock, having Hannah home at last.”
She stared at him. “You do look just like he said you would, but I expected someone much older, someone … different. You’re just a boy.”
Zeb stood as tall as he could. After more than a month on the Natchez Road, he no longer thought of himself as a boy. “I’m fourteen, ma’am. I’ll be fifteen in March….” He frowned. “But who told you what I look like?”
Dr. McAllister sat on a bench on the wide back porch, his white lab coat hanging loosely on his shoulders. He got to his feet, pushing against the wall for support. He moved toward the porch rail.
“Zebulon, a man came here and told us that you had kidnapped Hannah, that you were a dangerous outlaw, armed to the teeth, tall and skinny, with a mop of shaggy hair. He said you were riding a big, funny-looking horse.”
“Dangerous outlaw?” Zeb’s voiced cracked. “A kidnapper? But who would—”
“Don’t worry,” Hannah’s mother said, pulling Hannah against her. She smiled. “You don’t need to explain. Hannah has told us all about you. We know you’re not a kidnapper. We know that, without you, Hannah would never have been able to get home.”
“But who told you I was a kidnapper?”
Dr. McAllister leaned forward a bit unsteadily, his hands on the porch rail. “A man visited us here a few days ago,” he said. “He told us that he had news of Hannah. We invited him in. He was a terrible man, huge, with greasy black hair, missing a couple of fingers on his right hand. He was wearing what looked to be an army uniform, but the insignia had been ripped off.”
Hannah gasped. “The sergeant!”
Zeb nodded. “Must’ve passed us while we were at Yockanookany Village. Got a horse somehow.”
Dr. McAllister called to them. “Please,” he said, “come up to the porch. We can sit and talk.”
Zeb shook his head as he climbed the porch steps. “I really need to be on my way, sir. I’ll be leavin’ here in a few minutes….” He looked back at the stable. “Would it be all right for me to leave the packhorse here while I go to Natchez to look for my grampa?”
“Of course,” Dr. McAllister said. He shook Zeb’s hand. “We want to thank you, Zebulon, for helping Hannah come home. She never would have made it without you.”
Dr. McAllister pointed once again to the porch chair. “Please sit down, Zebulon. We have some important news for you.
“That sergeant,” he continued, “told us that the kidnapper was headed this way with Hannah and that he had a plan to intercept them. He would rescue Hannah and see that the kidnapper got his just deserts. He wanted a large sum of money to rescue Hannah.”
Hannah’s mother interrupted. “We were both ready to pay whatever he asked. But he wanted the money in advance. I didn’t trust him, so we told him that we would pay him if he delivered Hannah.”
Dr. McAllister nodded. “He was furious. He said when he found Hannah, we’d have to pay double what he was asking.”
The doctor put his hand on Zeb’s shoulder. “The sergeant will be a serious problem for you. He swore he was going to get you, if it was the last thing he ever did. I’m sure he’s in Natchez—or more likely, down in Natchez Under-the-Hill—waiting for you. You’ll need to be very careful.”
Zeb looked up as a black woman came out of the kitchen and onto the porch. “Miz Martha,” she said, “I’ll have the noon meal ready in about an hour.”
She paused, looking down at Hannah. “I have hot water on the stove, and I can have that tub filled in a minute.”
Then she looked at Zeb. “And I can heat more water, just in case anybody else feels the need for a bath.”
Zeb was suddenly aware of the sour, sweaty odor of his and Hannah’s unwashed clothes. They had been traveling a week since Yockanookany, too anxious to keep moving to stop and wash clothes and bathe.
Hannah’s mother put her arm around Hannah. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.” The two of them walked into the house.
Zeb thought about his mama. He remembered her comforting arm around his shoulders after his daddy died. He sighed.
Dr. McAllister leaned back against the wall. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” he said.
Sarah was singing in the kitchen. Dr. McAllister smiled. “Sarah really loves Hannah. For seven long months she was sure Hannah was still alive.”
Dr. McAllister glanced toward the kitchen. “Sarah was with me for fifteen years before I married Martha. I wasn’t sure she would take to a new family.”
“That must be difficult for a slave….”
Dr. McAllister turned to him and said in a low, measured voice, “Sarah is no slave. I would never have a slave. She was manumitted as a child … you know, given her freedom. The owner died and willed all of his slaves to be freed. Her husband was freed as an adult. He works as a blacksmith here in town.”
Dr. McAllister paused. “I know that you want to leave right away to look for your grandfather,” he said. “But wouldn’t it be better to rest here for an hour or two, have a bath, and change into clean clothes? You’ll want to be presentable so people in Natchez will speak to you. We can have our midday meal and then you can be on your way.”
Zeb knew that what Dr. McAllister was suggesting was the best thing. It was just that he was now only an hour or so from Natchez, and he had spent more than a month trying to get there to find his grampa. He felt like jumping on Christmas and galloping into the city to start searching. But Christmas didn’t have much gallop left in him, and Zeb had to admit that he, too, was very tired.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “A few hours’ rest would be a good idea.” He wrinkled his nose. “And I sure could use a bath.”
“Your horse has been traveling for more than a month, sometimes carrying two riders,” Dr. McAllister pointed out. “If you’re determined to go today, why don’t you take Hannah’s horse, Suba?”
Zeb shook his head. “But Hannah—”
Dr. McAllister smiled. “Don’t worry, it was Hannah’s idea. The horse is very high-strung. Not everyone can ride her, but Hannah is sure that you can. She uses a light English saddle on Suba. It’s almost a racing saddle. She says it’s like riding bareback.”
Zeb nodded. “You’re right. The horses are exhausted. I’d love to ride Suba into Natchez…. But could she carry two?”
“She’s very strong. I’m sure she could carry both you and your grandfather for a short distance.”
“You said ‘racing saddle’? Has Suba raced?”
“Not yet. But I’m sure she would do well.”
Zeb got up and started to pace. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I just can’t sit anymore.” He flexed his knees. “So I guess Suba hasn’t been ridden much with Hannah away.”
“We keep her at Culpepper’s farm where she can run. They exercise her every day.” Dr. McAllister looked up at Zeb. “Even so, she might be a real handful.”
“I’d sure like to find out.”
Dr. McAllister smiled. “Did Hannah tell you why she calls her horse Suba?”
Zeb nodded. “She said the horse’s name is Isuba Lusa, Choctaw for Black Horse.”
“That’s right. Hannah was only six years old when she got the horse, and just called her Suba.”
Dr. McAllister looked down at Zeb’s feet. “You’ll never be able to ride Suba wearing those Choctaw moccasins. I’ve got an old pair of boots you can borrow. I think we’re about the same size.”
“Thank you, sir. I’d appreciate it.”
Zeb smelled fresh bread just out of the oven and chicken roasted with some spices he couldn’t identify. I’m so hungry! It’ll be strange to eat at a table again. He closed his eyes, remembering the smells of his mama’s cooking.
Dr. McAllister leaned back against the wall, studying Zeb.
“Hannah told us about Tate McPhee’s men. There were two of them right behind you that first day on the Natchez Road?”
Zeb nodded.
“It’s more than likely they followed you all the way to Natchez. And McPhee may be with them.”
“I hope to find Grampa before McPhee gets here.”
“He may already be here. You spent several days at Yockanookany Village—they could have passed you. You’ll have to take great care when looking for your grampa so they won’t find out where he is.”
“I’ll be careful. He’s sure to be around Natchez, if he’s still alive. I’ll check at King’s Tavern first. He always stayed there and used that as his address for anyone tryin’ to sell or buy horses. He told me that the post rider always stops there.”
They sat together on the bench, each in his own thoughts.
Zeb lifted his head as Sarah stepped out on the porch, still humming. “I thought I’d fix up that little back room for Master Zebulon here,” she offered.
“I’d sure appreciate havin’ a place to stay,” Zeb said. “I may not need it tonight, though. If I’m not back by dark, I’ll be stayin’ in Natchez at King’s Tavern.”
Dr. McAllister shook his head. “I doubt you’ll find a place to stay this week, with the cotton buyers in town.”
He eased his back away from the wall. “I’ll draw you a little map of Natchez to help you get around. It’s not difficult. King’s Tavern is right on the road from here to Natchez, just inside the city limits.”
Dr. McAllister turned to Zeb. “One more thing,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll come into Natchez to see if we can be of any help to you. Leave us a message at King’s Tavern to let us know where we can find you.”
“You don’t need to go to all of that trouble. I’ll be all right.”
“No,” Dr. McAllister said, “we’ll be there. I don’t do much riding anymore, and as you must have seen, those old horses in the barn aren’t much. But Natchez isn’t very far. We may be able to help you find your grandfather, and I want to talk with the police constable about Tate McPhee and the sergeant.”