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?
The next morning, they started out early. The young Chickasaw were still with them. The group crossed creeks and slogged through bogs.
The braves finally disappeared when the patrol reached an army road-clearing crew. They were cutting down leaners and moving fallen trees off the road. In one area the army had placed logs crossways on the trail to try to make some of the wet lowlands passable.
They crossed the Tennessee River on the Colbert Ferry. It cost Zeb fifty cents for each horse and fifty cents for his grampa and himself. He remembered when he had angrily called the Colbert brothers “typical half-breeds,” charging the poor travelers high prices. He hated thinking about how that comment hurt Hannah’s feelings. Now, he was glad to pay and keep moving toward home.
Three days later, the convoy crossed the Duck River at the Gordon Ferry. Are the ferrymen still keeping their eyes open for “a shaggy-haired boy riding a big horse,” as Tate McPhee’s men had asked them to? Zeb wondered.
It was dark when they set up camp near Joslin’s Stand. Zeb wished they could go on. Only two hours and we’re home, he thought. Grampa was still riding well, but he was obviously very tired. Sometimes he rode bent over, half asleep.
The draft horses had become more and more strained. Captain Morrison had slowed the pace a bit and ordered more stops, but the horses were still having a hard time keeping up.
As the dragoons, Zeb, and his grampa set up camp, they could hear a horse galloping in their direction. The soldier on guard stood in the middle of the Nashville Road with his rifle at the ready, but the guard relaxed when he saw that it was the post rider.
The post rider rode up to Captain Morrison and saluted. “I borrowed a fresh horse from the clearing crew. They said you were just ahead. I had orders to reach you before you deliver your letter to Mr. Andrew Jackson.”
Captain Morrison asked the rider to dismount. The man did so, then opened the saddlebag and took out several letters. He handed two of them to Captain Morrison and then leaned, exhausted, against the horse. “Your commanding officer asked me to tell you that he would like you to read the one addressed to you immediately.”
While Captain Morrison was reading the letter, the post rider asked, “Is Cracker Ryan with you?”
Captain Morrison pointed to where Zeb’s grampa was standing, then continued reading his letter. Cracker Ryan moved over to the post rider. “You looked exhausted, Bobby. Come and sit down. We’ll give you something to eat.”
“I have a letter for you,” he said as Zeb’s grampa led him toward the campfire.
Captain Morrison called the dragoons together near where Cracker Ryan, Zeb, and the post rider were sitting. “Let me share some news with you.” He began to read aloud from the letter. “We think the earthquake was centered near New Madrid. The damage at New Madrid reported to Fort Dearborn by flat-boat crews was catastrophic! Every building in New Madrid was flattened. Most of the inhabitants were killed.”
“Grampa,” Zeb asked, his heart pounding, “isn’t that where Tate McPhee and his gang went?”
The old man nodded.
Captain Morrison continued. “The damage in Washington was minimal. A huge crevasse opened up and swallowed a house and barn, but no one was killed as far as we know.”
“Thank God,” Zeb said.
“Please take notice: Dancey Moore escaped from the stockade at Fort Dearborn with the help of ex-sergeant Michael Scruggs. They have either gone south to New Orleans or are headed north up the Nashville Road. We expect them to join an outlaw gang. I am alerting you to this problem since they may be coming your way.”
That night, extra guards were put on sentry duty.
As Zeb and his grampa walked away from the campfire that evening, Zeb looked up at the night sky.
“Grampa,” he said, “the first night I came to Natchez looking for you, I saw the comet sitting up there in the sky like a ball of fire with two tails behind it.”
“I saw it, too,” his grampa said. “It was something, wasn’t it?”
Zeb thought for a moment. “Some people said it was a bad omen, that it was a sign we were coming into bad times. Do you think that’s true?”
“No, Zeb. I think things are starting to look up for us. Just think, you got Hannah home, you found me, we got Andy and Christmas back, and now we’re almost home.” His grampa bent down to crawl inside the tent.
“Wait, Grampa. Didn’t the post rider bring you a letter today? What did it say?”
“It was for both of us. Here, you can read it.”
Zeb crawled out of the tent and sat on one of the logs near the campfire. He opened the letter.
Dear Cracker and Zeb:
I hope that this finds you in good health and almost home. Cracker, I have been thinking about your idea regarding the training of culls. We have a number of people trying to breed racehorses here. Many of their foals will never do for racing and most of them are not much good for anything else. The temperament is all wrong. I have seen a few here that have possibilities, but it would take a lot of patience and skill to retrain them. Katie could probably do some of it, but it would take someone like Zeb to make it work. Let me know. If you like the idea, I have four horses in mind already.
Best regards,
John Culpepper
Zeb crawled back into the tent, where his grampa was snoring softly. He smiled, thinking of home. He looked forward to working on the horse farm with his grampa again. He thought of his mama and how much pain he had caused her. Would she have baked one of those loaves of bread? His stomach growled. He could almost smell it. He closed his eyes. We’re almost home.
The next morning Zeb checked the packs on each of the draft horses. The Choctaw food baskets were empty now. He tacked up Christmas and was ready to go before the patrol had finished breakfast. But it was still too dark to leave.
Zeb’s grampa crawled out of the tent, smiled, and stood watching Zeb. “Getting a little anxious, Zeb?”
“Yes, sir, I guess I am. The draft horses are ready to go. Once we get the horses tacked up and our tents and bedrolls tied up, we can leave any time.”
They moved out of the camp with the first light. When they reached the upper meadow of the Ryan horse farm, the dragoons handed Zeb the leads for each of the four horses the army had borrowed. The army patrol left and hurried on to Nashville.
Zeb and his grampa sat on their horses, the draft horses gathered around them on their leads, and looked down into the valley below. In the distance they could see the farmhouse, almost hidden by the pine trees Zeb’s grampa had planted thirty years earlier. A wisp of white smoke rose lazily from the cookstove chimney.
They could see Josh loading up his arms with firewood. As he turned to go back into the house, he looked up and spotted them. He waved and then danced around in the dirt yard. He dropped the firewood and raced into the farmhouse.
Zeb’s grampa started to zigzag down the steep grassy meadow, leading two of the draft horses. Zeb paused for a moment, staring down into the valley below. Then he urged Christmas forward, leading Kapucha and the other two draft horses behind him.
Were there really an earthquake and a comet in the year