December 11, 1811
At last the convoy was lined up and ready to leave. A fine drizzle greeted the column. Mounted on Kapucha, Zeb rode up to the Lodge wagon and offered the family his new, large tent. He and his grampa would use their old tent, which still worked fine, and the Lodges would have shelter as well. He then showed them how to use the two halves of the tent as ponchos as they rode. In a few moments, Mr. and Mrs. Lodge sat on the wagon bench with one of the halves wrapped around them. The other half covered the two girls and the Lodge family possessions in the bed of the wagon.
Captain Morrison rode back to the rear of the convoy, dismounting at the missionaries’ wagon to check a wheel. He looked at the rest of the wagon and shook his head. Sarah’s husband, Ben, had repaired the old wagon for the time being, but no one expected it to hold for very long. Captain Morrison mounted again and rode to the three dragoons of the rear guard, spoke with them briefly, then cantered back to the head of the convoy.
Zeb and Hannah looked at each other and, without saying a word, moved out of the convoy to the little Culpepper cemetery. Hannah slipped off Christmas and stood by Lonnie’s grave. “Good-bye, Lonnie,” she said. “Thank you.”
Zeb helped her back up on Christmas and the two rejoined the convoy.
Captain Morrison spoke to Sergeant Douglas, who raised his arm and shouted, “Move out!”
The sergeant and the three dragoons in the lead moved forward immediately, with Captain Morrison and Cracker Ryan just behind them. Following them were Mr. Ebersole and Mr. Swanson, each man leading a draft horse loaded with pack baskets. Next in line rode Hannah on Christmas, then three dragoons, and last were Hannah’s mother on one draft horse and Dr. McAllister on another.
Following them were the Lodges, in their wagon pulled by the third Ryan draft horse. Zeb came next, riding Kapucha. He led the fourth of the draft horses, which served as a packhorse. Behind Zeb rode the three dragoons of the rear guard.
The convoy snaked out of Washington onto the Natchez Road. Two hours later they stopped at Mount Locust Inn to water the horses. The light rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits.
A courier galloped in and handed Captain Morrison an envelope. Zeb watched as the captain read the message, then wrote a note and handed it back to the courier. The captain surveyed the group standing around and stretching and ordered the sergeant to reassemble the convoy. As they re-formed, Captain Morrison checked the members once again. He stopped to talk with Mr. Ebersole and Mr. Swanson. “I don’t like the look of your horses. Have you been exercising them as I asked?”
“We rode them every day since the day you mentioned it,” Mr. Ebersole said. “These are good horses. We brought them with us all the way from Pittsburgh.”
“What? You mean those horses have been idle on a flatboat for two months or more?” Captain Morrison demanded.
“Yes, but—”
“Enough! If you are smart, you will go back now, while you have the chance. Those horses will never make it. If you decide to continue and if you cannot keep up, we will have to leave you wherever we are.”
When the captain reached the missionary family, he was still angry with Ebersole and Swanson. Mrs. Lodge was in the back of the wagon sorting through their supplies. The two girls sat on the bench with their father. They looked up, their eyes wide with fright as Captain Morrison pulled the horse to a stop next to the wagon.
“This is your last chance,” he said impatiently. “You’ve got a much better horse now, and the wagon has been repaired, but I’m still afraid the wagon won’t make it. You can easily go back to Washington from here without an escort. Surely you have more sense than those two fools up in front.” He waited a moment. When they did not respond, he said, “If, however, you decide to continue with us and you break down anywhere between here and Yowani, I will have to leave you and continue with the rest of the convoy, just as I told them. I cannot be responsible for you.”
The captain nodded to the sergeant, who waved his arm and shouted, “Move out!” The convoy moved forward once again.
When they reached their campsite the first night, the dragoons immediately put up their tents in a neat row. The civilians formed a loose circle around the campsite. Zeb helped the Lodge family put up the new tent and then loaned them the Spanish army shovel to dig a trench around it. They rolled out the ground cloth and put their meager possessions inside.
The dragoons were busy digging the army latrine and making the communal cook fire. Everyone pitched in except Ebersole and Swanson.
Hannah and Zeb collected kindling for the fire, while two of the dragoons cut wood.
They had all carried some food with them: salted meat to be cooked over the fire, white potatoes and yams, and winter vegetables such as cabbage and collards. Everyone had brought bread, since they would see no more until they reached Nashville. Once they ran out of food, they would have to stop at the stands, the little makeshift inns located about twenty-five miles apart on the road. If they were going to keep the schedule Captain Morrison had set, they would seldom have time or opportunity to hunt.
Hannah and Zeb searched for mud to pat around the potatoes they were planning to bake in the cook fire. But the soil was still too sandy. They wet the potatoes, and Hannah rolled them into the fire with a piece of kindling. She looked at Zeb and grinned. “Remember those wonderful baked potatoes the night we crossed the Duck River?” she asked.
“Course,” he replied. “I thought they were the best potatoes I’d ever eaten!”
After they ate, each person went to the stream and washed his or her own tin dish, pots, and utensils with sand and water. But Swanson and Ebersole didn’t bother. Are they gonna eat off dirty plates tomorrow morning? Zeb wondered. Maybe they think someone’ll wash the gear for them.
The McAllisters had set up their tent next to Zeb and his grampa. They watched as Ebersole and Swanson stacked their dirty plates and pots and put them back inside their tent.
“They may give out before the horses do,” Cracker Ryan observed. “They’re bound to get sick if they don’t clean their cooking gear. They may need your services before morning, Dr. McAllister.”
Captain Morrison walked around the campsite and talked with each group. When he got to the McAllisters and Zeb and his grampa, the old man asked him, “What do you think will happen to Dancey Moore?”
“I have news for you. I received a message at Mount Locust Inn. I have mixed feelings about the news, so I wanted to wait until we set up for the night to tell you.”
“Oh, no!” Hannah cried. “Don’t tell us that Moore escaped!”
“No, Hannah. The territorial judge felt that there was not enough evidence to convict him for Lonnie Champ’s death. His lawyer convinced the judge that no one could prove that it was murder, so Moore was convicted on lesser charges. He was sentenced to ten years in prison doing hard labor. Those men he had with him were sentenced to five years.”
“That should take care of him for a while, Hannah,” Zeb said.
“But Captain Morrison, you don’t seem particularly happy,” Cracker Ryan said.
“I’m not. The judge wrote that he thought it was a nice irony, having Moore and his men work out their hard labor sentence mucking out the stables at Fort Dearborn.”
Cracker Ryan sagged. “Oh, no!” he said.
“What’s the matter with that?” Zeb asked. “I think it’s funny. Serves him right.”
Cracker Ryan said, “Dancey Moore is a scoundrel, a thief, and probably anything else we might name, but he does know horses, and he knows how to dicker as few people do.”
Hannah interrupted. “But I don’t see—”
“He and his men will do that job better than it has ever been done. They’ll bathe and brush and currycomb the horses. They’ll have them oiled and shined and ready for parade,particularly the officers’ horses, the sergeants’ horses, and the horses of the men in charge of keepin’ watch on them.”
Captain Morrison nodded. “You’re right. It won’t be long before they’ll be breaking horses for the dragoons and maybe helping in the training some of the new recruits. We have a lot of new recruits now and too few experienced men to train them.”
Zeb shrugged. “So he’ll be doin’ something he knows about, something he likes. He’ll still be in prison.”
“But not for long, unless I miss my guess,” Captain Morrison said. “He has contact with a lawyer, which means he has access to his bank account. Can you imagine what a temptation a bribe of five hundred or maybe a thousand dollars would be to some of those new recruits? I sent a letter back to the commanding officer, asking him to talk with the judge. I hope I’m not too late.”
“Too late?” Hannah asked.
“If they do escape, they can’t go back to Natchez. They’ll either go to New Orleans or they’ll come north … up the Nashville Road!”
Zeb looked down the dark road.
“Unfortunately,” Captain Morrison said, “if this happens, they will be mounted on excellent horses, in good condition. They will surely be armed. And Dancey Moore wants revenge. He’s furious with you, Hannah, for fooling him.”
Hannah’s mother pulled her close. “What will we do?”
“I doubt he’ll attack the convoy, but we’ll double the watch at night. Once you’re at Yowani, he can’t hurt you.”
Dr. McAllister put his arms around Hannah’s shoulders. “He’s right. We’ll talk with the Miko. He’ll never let Moore within a mile of Yowani.”
Dr. and Mrs. McAllister walked away with Hannah between them, the three of them talking quietly.
“We’ll look after Hannah,” Zeb said.
“And what about the sergeant?” Cracker Ryan asked Captain Morrison.
“Of course, I regret now that I let him go. That combination of Moore and Scruggs is a very dangerous one. If Moore does escape and the sergeant joins him, they’ll be hard to stop. The army has a number of people in Natchez Under-The-Hill looking for the sergeant.”
The captain looked down at the old Ryan camping tent. “I’m glad you loaned your new tent to the missionary family. I know it must sound to you that I’m too rough on them, but I had been hoping that they would decide not go. Mark my words. That wagon will break down, and there is nothing that anyone will be able to do for them.”
The captain touched his hat. “Good night.”
The next day, the horses ridden by Ebersole and Swanson were obviously tired. The convoy had slowed and stopped more frequently to rest, but it was clear on the fourth night that the merchant’s horses couldn’t make it. “We will reach Brashear’s Stand by noon tomorrow,” Captain Morrison told them. “If you can’t keep up tomorrow, try to make it to the stand. At least you’ll have a place to stay until you can make other arrangements.”
“Other arrangements?” Ebersole asked.
“You may find someone willing to sell you a horse,” Captain Morrison said. “A horse in good condition. Or maybe with a month of daily conditioning, you might be able to get those four horses into good shape.”
“But how will we catch up with the convoy?”
“You won’t. You will have to go alone, like most of the others on the Nashville Road. I wish you had turned back at Mount Locust.”
“You can’t do this to us! I’ll write to your commanding officer.”
“Good. He’ll be pleased to know that I am carrying out his orders.”
The convoy left the next morning, with Ebersole and Swanson far behind, and arrived at Brashear’s Stand about noon, where they stopped and had their noon meal. They had just finished eating when Ebersole and Swanson arrived. Their horses were walking slowly with their heads down, their necks and flanks lathered.
The two men immediately began to negotiate for horses. Ebersole approached Cracker Ryan. “I understand you are a horse trader and that the four draft horses are yours,” he said.
When the old man nodded, Ebersole continued. “I’d like to buy ’em from you.”
“They’re being used. How can I possibly sell them?”
“You can leave the squaw, her kid, and that white man who’s with ’em here at the stand. They’re probably used to a lot worse than this. We’ll give the kid some money for that big horse she’s riding. That horse could pull the wagon and we’ll give you such a good price, you won’t mind givin’ up whatever you’re carryin’ on the packhorses. Whaddya say?”
“Mr. Ebersole,” Cracker Ryan growled, “up to a minute ago I was feelin’ a little sorry for you two. Now I wouldn’t sell you one of those horses, much less four. No matter what the price!”
“I know you’re a horse trader, Ryan. That’s just a good dickering line you’re usin’. But money talks. I’ll offer you five hundred dollars a horse!”
Cracker Ryan began to uncoil his whip. “Do you know why I’m called Cracker Ryan?”
Ebersole shouted, “All right! Five hundred was low. Seven fifty? … A thousand?”
The old man stepped back and gave the whip a little flip with his wrist. The end snaked out and took a leaf off a nearby tree.
Cracker Ryan held up his other hand. “Please, Mr. Ebersole. Don’t say another word.”
Ebersole raised his fist and shook it at Cracker Ryan. “You’re crazy, you old fool….”
The whip arm came back and the tip end picked off another leaf. “Don’t say another word.”
Ebersole slunk away, muttering under his breath.
Dr. McAllister appeared at Cracker Ryan’s side. “We heard all that. Thank you. Some of the soldiers told us that those two were boasting how they sold Monongahela whiskey to the Indians all the way down from Pittsburgh in trade for pelts and skins. They boasted how easy it was to fool the Indians once they had a little whiskey in them.”
Cracker Ryan coiled up the whip. “They’ll probably lose all that money before they leave Brashear’s Stand. It’ll serve ’em right.”
The convoy packed up and started up the highway. They stopped in the early evening and camped at the edge of a meadow near the Pearl River.