The Crossing at Cypress Creek

by Pam Hillman

  But before he reached them, Vickers fell, and the hulking form stood over him, silhouetted against the night sky, one hand gripping a wicked-looking blade. Caleb leveled his pistol and squeezed the trigger. The boom of the shot reverberated across the river, and the man stumbled backward to splash in the shallow water at the edge of the raft.

  Caleb hurried toward Vickers. “Vickers, are ya —?”

  “Cut the lines.”

  “Cut the —?”

  “Do it. Now!”

  Caleb and William rushed to do Vickers’s bidding, the timber raft soon floating free. As the distance between them and the shore increased, Caleb crouched next to Vickers, eyes searching the shadowed shore.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear them.”

  “They weren’t making enough noise t’ scare up a cat.” Caleb reloaded his pistol, checked to make sure his knife was in easy reach. “I would no’ have heard them if William had no’ alerted me.”

  “Was it Massey?”

  “I have no’ seen him or his cohorts since the shooting began, so —”

  “They’re all gone. Massey, Colbert, and Wheeler,” William interrupted, crouching beside them. “Are you hurt bad, Mr. Vickers?”

  Vickers ignored the question. “Light a couple of lanterns in case there’s any other crazy folks out on the river this night. And put up a distress flag at sunrise. You’ll pass a settlement about midmorning. Some . . . some good men there. You can trust . . . trust . . .”

  “He’s lost consciousness.” William motioned toward their sleeping hut. “Let’s get him inside, and I’ll see to his wounds.”

  While William tended Vickers, Caleb hung a lantern on a pole at the front of the timber raft and one at the back, the light spilling out across the river, then joined William and Vickers.

  Caleb watched William for a moment before eyeing the river. “What woke ya?”

  William grinned. “Well, you probably won’t believe me, but remember when I tied up the raft last night? I had about forty feet of rope left and didn’t know what to do with it. So I just ran it across the logs and tossed it into the lean-to. And then, at bedtime, I unrolled my bedroll across that rope, figuring if anyone was sneaking around during the night, I’d know it.”

  “I canna . . .” Caleb shook his head, then chuckled. “Well, your rope trick saved our necks.”

  Moonlight played across the river as Micaiah shoved the wizened old Kaintuck overboard.

  The frail body landed with a splash, sank briefly, then bobbed back to the surface. Curiously, he watched as the body flipped straight up and the arms floated on top of the water as if the old man would swim away. Which was quite funny when he thought about it.

  He wrinkled his brow as the body continued to float. Maybe he’d miscalculated the old farmer’s body weight. But sometimes it took a while. He crouched on the flatboat and waited for the water to soak into the man’s clothes, air pockets to dissipate, and the weight of water and the rocks tied to the old man’s feet to pull him under.

  The flatboat drifted downriver, leaving the old man behind, head lolling to the side, and still the body remained visible. Micaiah chuckled. The old codger should’ve gone straight to the bottom after all the corn whiskey he’d guzzled throughout the night. The bodies of his sons had disappeared as soon as he’d rolled them over the side.

  Though Micaiah didn’t really care one way or the other if the body sank, the least amount of evidence left behind, the better. The old man was being just as stubborn and hardheaded in death as he’d been in life. Long after his sons had passed out from the whiskey, their pa had still been hard at it. But finally, in the wee hours, he’d also given in to the effects of the strong brew, and Micaiah had reached for the knife tucked in his waistband.

  Quietly and efficiently, he’d dispatched the boatmen from Kentucky with no more compunction than he’d feel gutting a fish.

  After killing the guards and escaping from the flooded jail, he’d made his way to the Big Black River and knifed a lone traveler on a small raft, then floated downriver toward the Mississippi. When he’d spotted the larger flatboat loaded with goods headed to market, he’d cut the ropes holding the stolen raft together, letting everything float away. Except the whiskey, that was. He’d spun a sad tale about losing all his goods when his raft had slammed into a sandbar, and the old man and his sons had been more than happy to take him and the whiskey on board.

  The ploy had worked more times than he could count. His men would move up the trace with a group of unsuspecting travelers, hire on as raftsmen in Nashville or some little hamlet, and then bide their time to take over the rafts. And dead men couldn’t tell tales.

  This time had been no different, other than the fact he’d been alone in the endeavor and had kept the old man and his sons alive until they cleared the smaller river. The four of them had floated down the Big Black for several days before he’d made his move. There hadn’t been any reason to do away with them when they could man the craft until he didn’t need them anymore. More than once when they’d had to dig out from a sandbar, he’d been proud of his restraint. But once they’d hit the Mississippi, he’d made his move.

  As the distance between the flatboat and the body widened, the old man’s hoary head finally sank beneath the smooth surface, his arms floating upward to be the last to go as if he were still grasping at life until the bitter end.

  The old man and his sons forgotten, Micaiah turned away, eyed the flatboat loaded with corn, barley, wheat, and tobacco. He’d make landfall at Cypress Creek within days, bearing gifts for all.

  Pleased with the turn of events, he lay down amid his newly acquired wealth and closed his eyes. With this and whatever Elias and the others had managed to take on their trip down the river, the next few weeks should be fine. Mighty fine indeed.

  Caleb noticed the cabins becoming more and more frequent the farther they went downriver. “Natchez can’t be too far away.”

  “Father’s sawmill is just past the wharf at Natchez Under-the-Hill.” William sighed. “We’ll need to steer clear of any boats there but manage to get close enough to shore so that we can tie off. This is one stop we can’t miss.”

  “How’s Vickers?”

  “He’s running a fever, but at least he’s alive.”

  They’d bypassed the settlement where Vickers had told them they could pick up an extra hand or two. They hadn’t had the manpower to handle the boat and send someone to tie off the raft, and no one had been around to heed their calls. They’d just rolled on past, unable to do anything to stop their forward momentum.

  When Natchez Under-the-Hill came into view, Caleb’s heart sank. Several ships were anchored offshore, some tied up to the pier, along with flatboats tucked in here and there. The Natchez side of the river was a hub of activity.

  “Stay t’ the middle o’ the river till we clear the landing.”

  William nodded, taking his position on the opposite side of the timber raft. As soon as they passed the congested area around the wharf, they started pulling hard on the sweeps, trying to nudge the raft toward the sawmill. Their efforts seemed to be in vain. Caleb spotted the landing in the distance, half a mile away, but —

  “The horn, Caleb,” Vickers called out from where he lay under the lean-to, his voice weak. “Blow the horn.”

  The horn. He’d forgotten the horn.

  Caleb grabbed the bullock horn and gave it three long blasts, then three more for good measure. Dropping the horn to dangle around his neck, he dug the sweep into the river, pushing against the current to turn the hundred-ton raft toward the shore.

  “We’re not going to make it. We’re still eighty yards out.” William’s voice sounded strained. “Blow the horn again.”

  Blast after blast echoed across the river, and to his relief men spilled down the bluff. They shoved off from the shore and rowed their rafts out to meet them, towing ropes they’d hitched around pilings driven into the banks.

  Soon, the men met them, tossed l
oops over posts on the raft. Then one of the men waved his hat high and yelled toward the shore. “Reel her in.”

  And that’s just what they did. The men onshore started taking in hitches around the sturdy posts, and the distance between the timber raft and the bank narrowed slowly but surely. When the edge of the raft stopped with a jolt against the bank, the men cheered.

  Caleb accepted the congratulatory slaps on his back as he made his way toward the shelter where Vickers lay. “We’re here, Vickers. We’ll get you to a doctor.”

  “Just get me home to my wife.”

  “Aye.” Caleb laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “We need some help over here.” William motioned to several of the men, and they gathered around, lifted Vickers, and carried him off the raft.

  William’s father stood on the landing, watching them disembark. He called for a wagon, and they loaded Vickers in the back, instructing the driver to take him home and call a doctor.

  With Vickers taken care of, Mr. Wainwright eyed Caleb and William. “From the looks of you two and Vickers there, I take it the trip was . . . trying.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” William clasped his father’s hand. “The rest of the crew jumped us in the night. We managed to fight them off and cut the ropes, leaving them behind. Vickers was injured and was in no shape to help. That left Caleb and me to manage the raft alone. And we had hardly a clue what we were doing.”

  “But you made it. And just in time, too. The crews just finished digging the saw pits, so we can start sawing logs right away. I’ve already signed agreements with two contractors.” Mr. Wainwright slapped his son on the shoulder. “You should both be proud.”

  “If it had no’ been for Mr. Vickers, we would no’ have made it.” Caleb shrugged off Mr. Wainwright’s praise. “He’s the one who knows how t’ navigate the river.”

  “He’ll be rewarded for his service.” Mr. Wainwright studied the logs. “How quickly can you deliver more?”

  “I daresay Connor and the loggers will have this many or more ready to go by the time we get back to camp.” William looked at Caleb. “What do you think? Another week, maybe?”

  “Aye. I do no’ see why no’.”

  “Good. More than good. It’s wonderful.” Mr. Wainwright rocked back on his heels. “There are no less than five mansions being built on the bluff as we speak, and word has it that plans for more are being drawn up. I can sell everything you deliver and more.”

  “There’s just one problem, sir.” Caleb cleared his throat. “We need a trustworthy crew.”

  “Bloomfield should be able to help with that. And what about supplies?”

  “I have a list.” William handed over a sheaf of papers. “We need more loggers, more draft horses, saws, iron. It’s all here.”

  Mr. Wainwright studied the list, then folded it and stuck it in his inside pocket. “Very well. Grab your bedrolls, and we’ll head to Wainwright House. I’m sure you both would like a bath and some of Mrs. Butler’s home cooking.”

  When Caleb dropped his gear, along with Alanah’s two large packs, in the sand at the edge of the raft, Mr. Wainwright shot him a quizzical look.

  William laughed. “That’s not all bedding and clothes, Father. Caleb promised a certain young lady that he’d deliver a bunch of medicinal herbs to Mr. Weaver.”

  “The apothecary?”

  “Aye, sir.” Caleb hefted one of the packs and slung it over his shoulder. “If I could borrow a horse or a mule, I would be indebted.”

  “I’ll do better than that. We’ll take one of the wagons.” Mr. Wainwright picked up the other pack. “Weaver’s shop is not far from Bloomfield’s office. William and I can stop by there while you take care of your business.”

  Chapter 16

  WHEN MR. Wainwright pulled to a stop outside the apothecary’s, Caleb jumped down and grabbed Alanah’s packs from the back of the wagon.

  He stepped inside the shop, dropped the packs, and looked around. Every surface was covered with bottles, jars, clay pots. Clumps of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and a sickly sweet odor wafted from somewhere in the dark recesses of the building. Whatever the apothecary was brewing, it certainly didn’t smell like supper.

  The curtain in the back parted, and a wizened man with spectacles shuffled out, a cloud of steam following in his wake. He wiped his hands on a stained apron, then inclined his head in greeting. “Good day, sir. Weaver at your service. How may I help you?”

  Caleb motioned to the packs. “Miss Adams sent these for you.”

  A smile bloomed on the old man’s wrinkled face. “Miss Adams, eh? How fares she?”

  “Very well. She sends her regards.”

  With a murmur that might have meant agreement, the apothecary cleared a spot on the cluttered countertop, then motioned for one of the bundles. Caleb obliged, untying the drawstring. One after another, the man pulled out the contents, sniffing each small bundle or jar in turn. With the hundreds of scents swirling around them, Caleb wondered how he had a clue what each contained. But apparently he had a nose for such things.

  “Tansy. Slippery elm. Pokeweed. Cypress oil. Yes. Hmmm.” He pulled out a good-size packet, sniffed, then shook it in Caleb’s face. “Aha! Bloodroot. Do you realize how hard this is to find? That dark-haired miss must have inherited her acumen from her Choctaw relatives.”

  “You must be referring t’ Lydia.” Caleb crossed his arms, the movement stretching the leather jerkin over his shoulders. “Mistress Adams’s hair is no’ dark. ’Tis like honey, it is, shot through with gold.”

  “Gold and honey?”

  Heat flushed up Caleb’s face, and it wasn’t from the close quarters. “If ya do no’ want t’ buy the herbs, say so directly, and I’ll be on me way.”

  “Don’t go off half-cocked.” The old man cackled. “I just wanted to be sure you hadn’t filched these herbs from the miss, tried to sell them to line yer own pockets.”

  Caleb glared at the crusty old man, then relaxed. The apothecary was only watching out for Alanah. With that in mind, he kept silent, watching as Weaver finished his inspection of the bulkier but much lighter bundle, containing what looked to be little more than weeds and vines.

  “What?” He riffled through the packs strewn across the counter. “No turkey tails?”

  “I would no’ be knowin’, sir.”

  “I know it’s a harrowing journey, but you tell Miss Adams I’ll make it worth her while if she’ll send me some mushrooms posthaste.”

  “Aye. I’ll be sure t’ relay the message.”

  The apothecary finished his inspection of the contents of the packs, then removed his spectacles, cleaned them with his apron, and squinted at Caleb. “I shouldn’t give you the coin for Miss Adams’s herbs, but —”

  “Maybe this will convince you that Alanah sent me.” Caleb held out a piece of paper. “She asked for these supplies.”

  With another suspicious grunt, the apothecary hooked his spectacles over his ears and took the note. He held it close, read it, then nodded. “It’s her handwriting all right.”

  “Aye. I’ll see that she gets the supplies and the coin.”

  “See that you do.” As he gathered the supplies, Weaver’s rheumy eyes caught and held Caleb’s. “I don’t believe I caught your name, young man.”

  “Caleb O’Shea.”

  “If I may be so bold, Mr. O’Shea, as to ask how you know Miss Adams?”

  Caleb pinned him with a piercing look. “I do no’ think that’s any o’ your concern.”

  The apothecary sighed. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked, but I was hoping you might have plans to marry the girl —”

  “Take her t’ wife?” A flush crept up his neck. What did Mr. Weaver know of what had happened back at the logging camp? Was he a soothsayer as well as an apothecary? “I hardly know the lass.”

  You know her well enough to kiss her.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Mr. Weaver
shook his head. “It’s just that I worry about her, what with that uncle of hers leaving her alone for weeks at a time, especially after what happened to her sister.”

  “Betsy?” What had happened to Betsy? He’d just assumed she was a simple, shy woman-child who had a way with animals.

  “Yes. That’s the one.”

  “What happened t’ her sister?”

  Mr. Weaver consulted the list again, then uncorked another bottle. A foul-smelling odor assaulted Caleb’s nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes. The apothecary didn’t seem to notice as he tipped a small portion into a smaller vial. “You haven’t been here long, have you?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “Ah.” The apothecary looked askance at him. “Ever heard of Micaiah Jones?”

  “The name is no’ familiar.”

  “Micaiah Jones is a thief, a cutthroat, and a river pirate. He and his outlaw bunch landed in Natchez a few times, and they always strike fear into the hearts of everyone they encounter. Young Betsy is the latest in a string of girls those brutes have kidnapped over the years.” Weaver’s reedy voice vibrated with indignation. “They take them as their women —if they don’t murder them outright.”

  Caleb’s stomach turned at what Mr. Weaver had told him. But surely he was wrong about Betsy. “I saw her —the one they call Betsy. She’s home with her sister.”

  Mr. Weaver glanced up. “Is she now? And how does she fare?”

  “She seems . . . disturbed.” Caleb lifted a shoulder. “But I did no’ know her before.”

  “A sunnier, friendlier young lady you couldn’t have found.” The apothecary shook his head. “Those cutthroats. They should be hanged for what they’ve done.”

  Memories of the raid on a village on a small island in the Atlantic swamped Caleb: the fierce battle, the thunderous roar when the soldiers of fortune were victorious over their adversaries. And then . . .

  Fortified with the flush of victory and the abundance of strong drink, he and his fellow soldiers set about celebrating, drinking and dancing with the grateful islanders. Hours later, after consuming more ale than should have been humanly possible, Caleb found himself squared off against one of his compatriots, a sharp, curved blade pointed at his stomach.