CHAPTER FOUR
Making Camp

Zeb grabbed hold of Hannah’s wrist, yanking her roughly to her feet. “C’mon!” he shouted over the roar of the river. “We’ve got to find Christmas!”

He started to push through the dense undergrowth and brambles along the river’s edge and pulled Hannah, stumbling, behind him. She grabbed hold of his shirt. “Wait! … Wait a minute!” she gasped.

She pointed to the open forest just thirty feet away. “Why don’t we go over there? There’re no vines or thorny bushes,” she said, heading in that direction. “It’ll be faster.”

Zeb shouted after her, “You go ahead. See if you can get back up to the ford. Can you whistle?”

She nodded.

Zeb turned and began to force his body through the brambles again. He shouted over his shoulder, “I’ll keep moving along the bank, watching for Christmas in case he didn’t make it.”

“If you see him in the water, are you going in after him?”

Zeb looked down at the river just a few feet from where he was standing. The red, muddy water churned against the bank, tearing at the trees and underbrush. Zeb hated to think of Christmas struggling to keep alive.

He had a sudden awful memory of those few seconds when he hadn’t been sure he could save Hannah. He had felt so helpless. He wondered if she knew how close he had come to letting her be dragged under for good.

It’d be foolhardy to jump in if Christmas were out of reach, he thought. But I know I would.

“Yes,” he said, with a lot more assurance than he felt. “I’ll probably go in after him. He means a lot to me. I got him into this, and I’ll have to try to get him out. You go on now. Run up to the ford. Whistle if you find him.”

Hannah slipped into the forest and disappeared. Zeb doubted he would be able to hear her whistle over the noise of the rushing water, but they could cover more ground if they split up. He fought his way through the thick undergrowth, his eyes on the river.

He hadn’t gotten far when he heard a high shrill whistle. He pushed through the thicket away from the river and into the open forest. There it was again. He ran as fast as he could through the dead leaves, the ferns whipping against his ankles.

When he reached the clearing, there stood Christmas, knee-deep in golden, late-summer grass, quietly grazing as if nothing had happened. Water still dripped from the muddy and matted mane and tail. His wet, dark-chestnut–colored coat glowed in the late afternoon sun. The big horse raised his head and looked at Zeb, and then lowered it again to pull at the grass.

Zeb waded through the deep grass and threw his arms around the horse’s neck. He pressed his face against the warm wet skin. “I thought I lost you, Christmas.”

He stroked the horse, running his hands all over Christmas’s coat and down each leg to check for cuts or other injuries. As he stood up, he looked around the clearing for Hannah. Then he heard it, a strange sound, almost like the cry of an injured animal.

He walked carefully through the deep grass and found Hannah curled into a ball, with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She was sobbing. He knelt down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. She looked up at him. “I was so scared.”

“I know how you feel, Hannah. I was scared too. I really didn’t think we would make it.”

He looked toward the river. “There’s nothing to be afraid of now. Those two men will never be able to cross the ford.”

“Do you think they’ll give up?”

“Doubt it. They’ll go back to the Gordon Ferry, but they’ll be at least two days behind us.”

She lay down again in her nest of grass. “I’m so tired. Can we rest for a little bit?”

“Good idea. Christmas needs the rest too.”

He called Christmas to him and removed the wet packs and saddle, red with river mud. “I know you don’t like the hobble, Christmas, but I don’t want no Chickasaw a’stealin’ you whilst we’uns is restin’.”

He hobbled Christmas’s forelegs and removed the bridle. He patted the big horse. “Go on and eat, Christmas. Doubt we’ll see much grass from here on.”

Christmas shuffled a short distance away and began to graze.

Zeb walked round and round in a circle, flattening the tall grass, and then he stretched out on it.

“When we catch our breath, I think we can set up camp in this clearing. I saw the remains of an old campfire over there by those rocks.” He glanced over his shoulder. Christmas was pulling at the grass. Zeb closed his eyes. He had never been so tired in his life.

When he awoke, the sun was low in the west. He must have slept an hour or more! Christmas stood looking out toward the river, apparently having eaten his fill for now. Hannah was still asleep.

Zeb rolled over and then stood up very slowly. Every muscle in his body ached. The skin under his arms was scratched and raw. His clothes were damp and cold. He picked up the saddle blanket, still heavy with water and mud, and hung it over a tree branch. He unrolled the canvas from around the bedroll and looked around for some place to put it where it might dry. Hannah opened her eyes and struggled to her feet. “What can I do?” she said.

He looked upriver. The water was still churning as it roared past them. “The way I figure it, we’re about five miles west of the Natchez Road. You think there’ll be any outlaws or Kaintucks this far off the road?”

“I don’t think so. The outlaws want to be close to the road to keep an eye out for travelers. The Kaintucks don’t want to get off the Natchez Road.”

“Why not? Might be safer for them.”

“They don’t want to get into Chickasaw territory. The Chickasaw are very violent.”

She looked around at the long grass. “Anyone can see the Chickasaw haven’t been here for a while. My guess is that if they do show up, we’ll never even see them. They’ll probably leave us alone. We’re not taking any game or anything.”

“In that case, I think we ought to stay here tonight.” He held up the canvas sheet. “If we can get a fire going, we might be able to dry these things and maybe even cook something to eat. We can do it after it gets darker so no one will see the smoke.”

Hannah headed toward the woods. “I’ll look for kindling,” she said. “You take care of the wet gear.”

As Hannah gathered dry sticks, Zeb kneeled on the ground and sorted through their wet supplies, hoping it would be possible to salvage something. When he lifted the bag of grain, water poured out of the bottom. “This stuff will be all right for Christmas tonight,” he mumbled to himself, “but I’ll have to leave what he doesn’t eat. By tomorrow it will start to rot.”

He sat back, cross-legged, lifting the long rifle and balancing it on his knees. When he opened the pan in the flintlock mechanism, he wrinkled his nose at the sharp odor and groaned, “The powder is wet,” he muttered, “and I’m sure it’s wet in the pistols too.”

He cleaned the remaining powder from the pan with his finger. He stood and swung the gun muzzle down, banging with his hand against the barrel. After several tries, the rifle ball slipped from the patch and out the end of the barrel. He put it next to his rifle kit. He poured out the wet powder, cleaned the bore thoroughly, and then ran a greased patch in the bore to prevent rust.

Hannah appeared with an armload of kindling. She dropped the sticks next to the charred logs and stood watching him. Finally she kneeled down and picked up one of the little squares of cloth. “What are these for?” she asked.

“They get wrapped around the rifle ball. Makes a tight fit and keeps the ball snug against the powder.”

She turned back into the woods to hunt for more kindling.

Zeb pulled the powder horn out of the saddlebag, glad now that he had double-wrapped it and sealed it in oilskin, a thin piece of deer hide rubbed over and over again with goose grease. He undid one layer and then the other and then lifted the beeswax seal. The powder was damp, but it looked as if it could be dried out. He wondered how long that would take.

Hannah dumped another load of kindling on the ground. She stooped and picked up the tinderbox, groaning with dismay as she opened the cover. She held the box open for him to see. “The tinder is wet,” she said, “and the flint and steel are wet too. How’re we gonna start a fire?”

Zeb pulled a handful of fine wood shavings out of the box and squeezed it. Soaking wet. He threw the wet tinder away. He wiped the piece of flint and the steel on his shirt. “I don’t think water will hurt them,” he said. “See if you can find a cedar tree. We can use some of fuzz off the bark. Or look for a bird’s nest. That will work too.” He pointed to the blackened logs. “Put some of the charcoal from those old fires in with it. That’ll make it catch faster.”

Zeb watched Hannah as she moved toward the forest to gather the tinder. As tired as she was, she moved lightly, quietly on the balls of her feet. He remembered what his grampa had told him about the Choctaw, who could slip through the forest without making a sound. Hannah was able to do that. I wonder, he thought, if she does that naturally or if she learned it somehow?

Before she stepped into the woods, Hannah turned and stared at Zeb. “How come you know so much about all this? You could be a Choctaw nakni, a brave!”

“Then my grampa could be a Choctaw chief,” he said. “He knows a lot about surviving in the forest. Never misses a chance to teach me when we’re out hunting. Now I wish I had paid more attention.”

When Hannah got back with some cedar bark, Zeb showed her how to shred it and mix it with a little charcoal.

He took the sticks she had gathered and built a little pile of kindling into a small lean-to against one of the partly burned logs. Then he made a nest of the tinder. When he hit the flint against the steel, sparks flew in all directions. The water hadn’t affected the flint and steel at all! A spark caught in the cedar-bark tinder. He blew on it gently. In seconds the tinder was aflame. He pushed the burning tinder under the kindling. They had the beginnings of a campfire.

When the fire had burned a while, they took out two of the four potatoes that Zeb had brought from home, wrapped them with sassafras leaves, and then packed them in red mud from the riverbank. Hannah gently pushed the mud-covered potatoes into the hot coals with a piece of kindling.

When the potatoes were done, Hannah pulled them out with a stick, rolling them along the ground away from the fire. They broke the red clay, baked hard around the potatoes, juggling the steaming potatoes in their hands. The skin was black but the inside was white and crumbly. They ate the potatoes, skin and all, grinning at each other.

Full now and warm, Hannah and Zeb stretched out on the ground near the fire and watched the vapor rise from their still-damp clothes.

The stars were clear in the black night, the moon still too low in the east to provide them with any light. Zeb turned on his side to let the fire dry the front of his clothes. Hannah was watching him. There was so much about Hannah that he didn’t know. She seemed to know lot about the Choctaw ways of doing things, but she spoke like an educated person. “You go to school in Yowani?” he asked.

“No. When I’m in Yowani, I study with my father or my mother. There are no schools there. When we’re in Washington, near Natchez, I go to a friend’s house. Her name is Katie McGonnigal. A tutor comes every day for four hours to teach the six of us. Katie’s the oldest. She’s twelve. I’m the youngest.”

Hannah sat up, stretching her arms toward the heat from the fire. “Feels good,” she said. “The sleeves are already dry.” She tugged at them. “I think they’ve shrunk some.” She looked across the fire at Zeb. “You get to go to school where you live?”

“We don’t have school there, either. I used to go up to the preacher in Franklin for grammar and numbers. We were just about to start Latin and Greek, but I had to quit when my daddy died. Grampa needed me at the farm.”

“Sounds like you wish you could have a lot more schooling.”

“I sure would like to, but there’s no way I can. That farm takes at least two people working from before dawn till after dark. We breed and raise horses mostly for the army. My cousins have to come and help sometimes. Mama still rides better than Grampa or me but she can’t do much of the really heavy work anymore.”

Zeb stretched out, his hands behind his head. He stared up into the black night. “Grampa and Uncle Ira let me read their books…. Maybe someday….”

Suddenly he sat up. “Speaking of books!” he said, jumping to his feet. He lifted a small leather saddlebag from a tree limb where he had hung it up to dry. “I forgot all about this.”

He opened the bag and pulled out a package, wiping it against his pants. Then he sat down next to Hannah and carefully unwrapped layer after layer of oilskin, finally revealing two leather-bound books. He fanned the pages, smiling with relief. “Just a little damp,” he said. He stood the books open to the air. “Might be dry by morning.”

Hannah was lying on her side, watching him. She shook her head in disbelief. “You brought some books to read?”

“Naw,” he said. “These are blank books. I hadn’t planned to bring them with me. I just never bothered to take this little saddlebag off the horse when I left home.”

“What are the books for?”

“My uncle Ira gave them to me. He publishes a weekly newspaper, and he wanted me to have something to write on when I go to the horse auctions and the breeders’ meetings.”

He reached into the saddlebag. “I have a pencil in here too,” he said.

“I’ve never tried a pencil,” she said. “We always used quills.” Hannah picked up the pencil and rolled it in her hands. “I would love to be able to write something. I wish I could write about….” She gestured at the forest around them. “About everything … from that first night when I stole your loaf of bread….” She looked down. “I wouldn’t really want anybody to read it though.”

Zeb handed her one of the books. “I won’t have much time for writing now,” he said. “You might as well have this one. Go ahead and use it. You can have the pencil too. And don’t worry. I’ll never read what you write unless you ask me to.”

Hannah leafed through the damp pages of the book and then stood it open to dry out. She put the pencil across the top so it would dry too. “Thank you, Zeb,” she said.

She lay down again, facing the fire. In moments they were both asleep.