Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  “I will not have my men barging into civilian homes and threatening the inhabitants. I am a guest of Dr. Taylor and you—” He sniffed. “What is that smell?”

  Joe giggled in the hall.

  Davis headed for the hall. “You little—”

  “Sergeant!” Colonel Russell yelled. “I will have you locked up.”

  Davis stopped. “But Colonel—”

  “That boy has been here all evening,” Russell said.

  Davis stared at his colonel for a long minute. Slowly he said, “Very well, Colonel.”

  “Now, I suggest you leave this house,” Colonel Russell said.

  Davis continued to stare for a time; then he slowly turned to leave.

  “And Sergeant,” Colonel Russell said, “get cleaned up.”

  ***

  Davis slammed the door. The soldiers waiting outside burst into laughter. He shot a look at them, and they fell silent like crickets. Slowly he felt anger fester. Joe was at the parlor window whistling “Dixie.”

  ***

  “Then what happened last night, Joe?” Curtis asked as he threw a six-foot spear over his skinny shoulder.

  “The soldiers heard me whistling ‘Dixie,’ and they took to laughing. Then Uncle Wilbur snuck up behind me and grabbed me by the collar.”

  “Did he whoop ya?” Curtis, with his snaggled-toothed grin, looked down at Joe.

  “He had a conniption fit, with Colonel Russell there and all.”

  “But did he whoop ya?”

  Joe threw his own pointed stick over his shoulder. “Sakes alive, Curtis, he whooped me across the butt with his shoe. Now, shut up before I give you a sockdologer across your lip.”

  “I knowed it. I knowed it.” Curtis kicked his bare foot into the air. “You get walloped more than any one person in the whole big world.”

  The boys trudged down the muddy streets. There were few citizens on the streets, mainly soldiers and contraband Negroes. The local white folks stayed indoors as much as possible. Joe believed them to be cowards.

  Joe saw the mud ball coming and weaved. It smacked Curtis. Curtis grabbed his arm, but he said nothing.

  Joe scooped up a glob, quickly made a ball and sailed it back toward the attacker, catching the Yankee private in the back as he tried to escape.

  “Damn it, Joe,” the private said, “I’ll flank you next time.”

  “You had better bring your whole company.” Joe, looking at Curtis holding his arm and pouting, said to the private, “Casualty for casualty.”

  The private laughed and went into a house he and some others had homesteaded.

  Joe had heard Helena was once a busy and growing town—that was before he had arrived. Now it was rundown and ragged. It was still busy though. In fact, more people were in town than ever before: Yankees. The soldiers had been rough on the town since they had arrived a year ago. Only a few stores remained now, and one was Dr. Wilbur Taylor’s mercantile.

  Dr. Taylor had figured since he was a Northerner, the occupying army would be lenient toward him. They were. In fact, he was doing more business than ever now that the small river town’s population had increased with the blue army. Because Helena was on the Mississippi and an occupied town, the store sold items that many parts of the South had a difficult time getting: coffee, candles, sewing needles, flour, and Joe’s favorite, hard candy.

  Many of the town’s people had little money to buy things from the store, so they traded eggs, milk, vegetables, and the like—if the Yankees didn’t steal it first. Joe saw a lot of trading across the picket line, especially cotton. He knew his uncle was making big money from trading cotton. Joe believed the Yankees were interested in getting white gold above all else.

  Joe and Curtis propped their sticks by the open door and went inside the store. Joe liked the smell of the place with its coffee, tonics, lamp oil and a blend of a hundred other smells.

  As the boys walked in, Dr. Taylor retrieved a bottle from a high shelf and gave it to an old woman. “Mrs. Cooper, just give James a couple teaspoons of this as the pain bothers him.”

  “Dr. Roy said a while back it would not be fitting to give him too much laudanum,” she said.

  He placed a tender hand on her back. “Mrs. Cooper, at this stage of his illness it will give him some comfort, and it can’t do anymore harm. Dr. Roy will agree.”

  When the woman left the store, the two boys were waiting at the long counter.

  “What are you two about?” Dr. Taylor said, as he placed two sticks of candy on the counter.

  They snatched them up and went to work on them.

  “We’re a-going fish sticking,” Curtis said, chomping the candy.

  “What?” Dr. Taylor said.

  “We made some spears, and Curtis knows this hole where we can stick some catfish and gars,” Joe said.

  “Yeah, my pa used to fetch me there all the time before the war,” Curtis said.

  Dr. Taylor shot a mean look at Joe. “Joseph, I forbid you going through the pickets. It has become very dangerous of late. You know that.”

  “The hole is inside the lines, Uncle Wilbur.” If Joe had known this was going to happen, he would have never stopped in.

  “Where?”

  “Just a little south,” Curtis said.

  “The Negro camp is south, and you boys will not go there. There is enough disease and dying with these Union soldiers without you catching something from those poor, overcrowded Negroes.”

  A tall black man came through the backdoor with a sack across each shoulder. Joe had never seen him before. He was broad across the chest and dark as night—Joe had never seen a Negro so dark. He must have just come from the darkest jungles of Africa.

  “Lucius, set those sacks along the wall there,” Dr. Taylor said.

  “Yessuh.”

  Lucius handled the sacks as if they were full of feathers. Joe had moved similar sacks around before, and he knew they were heavy. Lucius stacked them neatly and went back through the backdoor and into the storage room.

  When Lucius disappeared into the back, Joe resumed. “We won’t go to the Negro camp, will we, Curtis?”

  Lucius came back into the store with another load, and Curtis, wide-eyed, watched his every move.

  Joe elbowed Curtis. “Will we?”

  Curtis didn’t answer, but gawked at Lucius as if he had seen a bear.

  Joe elbowed him. “We won’t go there, will we, Curtis?”

  Curtis turned to them, “Oh. No, sir, we won’t.”

  “All right then, boys, but you make your presence known to the soldiers at all times. Don’t try to sneak by any of them.”

  The boys agreed and fled the store before Dr. Taylor could change his mind. On their way out, they bumped into Peter coming in.

  “Hey, slow down,” Peter said. “The Yankees are already here, no need to run now.”

  The boys grabbed up their spears. “Going fishing. See you at supper,” Joe said. With that, they trotted down the muddy street.

  ***

  “Peter, I trust you procured everything we needed from the boat,” Dr. Taylor said.

  “Yes, sir.” Peter handed a ledger to Dr. Taylor.

  “Where is Theo?” Dr. Taylor asked, studying the ledger.

  “He’s coming. He doesn’t feel well.” He was drunk again, but Peter didn’t want to say it.

  Theo waddled through the door. His large belly stretched his trousers, and his face was almost as red as his hair.

  “Are you not well?” Dr. Taylor asked.

  “I think I’m coming down with something, and that’s a fact.” He flopped down in a chair at the end of the counter, drew a blue handkerchief from his vest pocket, and mopped his face.

  “You just sit there for a time, and I will look you over in a few minutes,” Dr. Taylor said.

  Peter didn’t know how a man could let himself go as this fat man had. Peter prayed for the man often, but it was going to take a heap more praying he believed.

  Dr. Taylor squeez
ed Peter’s shoulder. “How did it go, my boy?”

  “Well, we retained what we needed,” Peter said, looking down at his shoes.

  “Your first time handling the buying and that is all you have to say?”

  “He ain’t handled a thing,” Theo said. His pumpkin head hung low on his chest as if it were too heavy for him to lift.

  “What do you mean by that?” Dr. Taylor asked.

  Peter felt the shame come over him like a hot wind.

  Theo raised his big head. “I mean they didn’t take him for serious, and that’s for sure.” His belly jiggled as he stood and put a hand on the counter. “They laughed at the boy. They wanted to know why a nigger was a-doing a white man’s business.”

  Peter stared at the floor, felt like sinking right through it.

  Dr. Taylor looked at Peter. “Is this true?”

  “Damn right it’s true,” Theo said, slurring his words and getting too loud. “Tell him boy. Tell him how they laughed on you. Tell him how they said, ‘Look at the monkey reading the writing.’ Go on, tell him.”

  “That is enough!” Dr. Taylor said. “You will mind your tongue, or you will find another job.”

  “He’s right, Dr. Taylor.” Peter forced himself to look up. “They laughed at me. They wouldn’t deal with me.”

  Dr. Taylor patted Peter on the back. “There will be another day, and I will go with you. We will make it right.”

  Peter felt the corners of his eyes burn. He went to a shelf and straightened bottles. He didn’t want Dr. Taylor to see if a tear betrayed him.

  Dr. Taylor told Theo to go home.

  “We still have the rest of the day left, and I need to earn more money,” Theo said, hopelessly pulling up on his pants.

  “You are of no service to me in this condition. Go home.”

  “That ain’t no way to be doing a sick man.”

  “Do you want me to examine you and see just what your illness consists of? I should think not.”

  Theo huffed and staggered out the door.

  Dr. Taylor turned to Peter. “Son, you go on home and help your mother.”

  “But I can help out here if you need me.”

  “No, boy, it has been a stressful day. Go on home. Go through the back and tell Lucius he is finished for the day. I will be home a little later.”

  On the way home, Peter felt his confidence slowly return. Dr. Taylor had said he would make things right. He was the best of men and Peter loved him for it. When Peter talked to the Lord tonight, he would give thanks for him.

  Chapter 2

  Smoke hung over the Negro camp like a gray ceiling. The camp—more like a garbage dump—sprawled down the river, yet still inside the levee and the safety of the Yankee lines: flimsy stick shacks and makeshift tents, made from anything the refugees could find. A pigsty couldn’t have been muddier or nastier. This type freedom had to be worse than the slavery from which they had escaped, Joe believed, but that was their business.

  “Dr. Taylor said don’t go into the Negro camp,” Curtis said.

  “We ain’t going all the way around the camp when the pond is just yonder.” Joe pointed to a small cypress brake. “We’ll just be going in a small part of the camp. Those darkies ain’t going to hurt you.”

  Curtis shadowed Joe, scanning every little thing like a scared hound. The refugees started noticing the odd couple with their spears over their shoulders: one blonde, shorter, with a Yankee kepi; the other, tall and skinny, brown hair, and no shoes.

  “What is that smell?” Curtis whispered, wrinkling his nose.

  “Smells like a privy,” Joe said. He wondered how they could live in such filth. Why did they follow the Yankee army here to live like this?

  Joe stopped by an old woman beside a ragged tent stirring a board in a simmering black pot and shooing flies. Curtis ran into his back.

  “Nation, Curtis,” Joe said, “what’s the bother with you?”

  Curtis said nothing, continued to glare all around as if he expected a wolf to attack at any minute.

  Joe peeked into the pot. It was a thin liquid, but smelled good. “What you cooking, Aunt?”

  “Juss a soup,” she said, taking her eyes away from the pot just long enough to take his measure.

  “Ain’t much in it, is it?” Joe asked, still examining the pot.

  A black man came from the tent and another walked up from behind the boys. Curtis eyed both men and moved closer to Joe. Joe never took his attention from the pot.

  The woman glared at Joe. “We ain’t got much to put in it, now is we?”

  He inspected the woman, noticed how skinny she was. Her dress was faded, thin, and ragged. He saw more feet than shoes, felt sorry for her, poor ignorant darky.

  “I tell you what. We are going fishing with these here spears,” Joe said. “Why don’t I fetch you a big catfish to go in that there pot?”

  The man from behind moved up to Joe. “Where is you gonna get that catfish?”

  Joe sized him up—he was ragged, too, and overdue for a good scrubbing. He was black, but had a white film over his skin like scales.

  Joe pointed to the cypress brake. “Curtis’s Pa use to take him and catch them right over there.”

  The two men laughed.

  The man from the tent said, “Boy, does you know us niggers is done caught every fish out of these holes around this here camp? We done got every rabbit, every squirrel, every coon, possum, snake, turtle, bird, you name it. We is also fishing that old river, too, for all we can get.”

  Joe looked at Curtis; he was trembling, afraid of the wind. He turned back to the men and smiled. “Well, I don’t know about all that there. I reckon we can fetch you a fish or two.”

  The woman dropped her board into the pot and pointed back toward Helena. “You boys best get on out of this camp before something happen to you.”

  “Now Mae, let them boys be,” said the man from the tent. “They’s going to catch us a ole catfish.”

  Other men migrated up and gathered around the boys, boxing them in.

  Curtis tugged at Joe’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”

  Joe ignored him and leaned on his stick. “You colored folk don’t know how to fish is all. Now, me and Curtis here, well that is another matter altogether.”

  The crowd laughed.

  A voice from the crowd asked, “You think you can catch enough for all us niggers?”

  The crowd roared with laughter. It was becoming a carnival.

  The man from the tent was not laughing now and grabbed Joe by the arm. “You look here, boy. We is starving to death. We is dying in this here filth, and we don’t need no cracker coming here funning us.”

  The man’s breath was rotten and his teeth—what were left—were black around the edges.

  Joe looked him in the eyes. “Why don’t you go back to your master then?”

  The man raised his hand back to swing, but it was stopped in midair by another hand.

  The crowd fell silent as Lucius let the man’s hand go. The man rubbed his wrist, but said nothing.

  “You boys best get on back to town,” Lucius said. “I heard Dr. Taylor tell you to stay away from this here contraband camp.”

  Curtis was sobbing, but Joe felt his own face burning. “I aim to go fishing.”

  Lucius looked down at him, and with his bullfrog voice said, “Go ahead, but beings I work for your uncle, I’m bound to tell him you was in the Negro camp.”

  “I ain’t scared of these darkies.” Joe tried to walk passed Lucius.

  Lucius stopped him with an iron grip to the shoulder. He pulled him away from the others. Curtis hurried behind them.

  “Boy, Peter say you is from Virginia. I don’t know what they is like there, but you is in Arkansas now, and niggers here is desperate.”

  Joe jerked loose when Lucius relaxed his grip. “Niggers are niggers!”

  “Boy, you is hardheaded. It all the same to me; these people can put you in that pot for all I give a damn; I’m just worried
for my work.”

  Curtis whimpered, “Come on, Joe.” He tugged at him.

  “What it going to be boy?” Lucius said. “You want me to tell Dr. Taylor?”

  Joe looked up at him. He would tell—damn darkie. “Come on, Curtis.”

  Joe threw the spear over his shoulder. He parted the crowd as he marched back toward town with Curtis in his wake.

  ***

  It was almost dark when Peter heard Joe coming down the street. Peter was in the little barn sharpening hoes for tomorrows gardening, but it was no mistaking that it was Joe. He was the only person around with a harmonica, and on top of that, he was playing Shenandoah. He knew other songs and played them well, but Shenandoah was his favorite.

  He had been playing the instrument the first time Peter had seen him. Peter could still remember clearly last year when the boat pulled up to the wharf. Joe was sitting on a trunk playing. Soldiers and men with carpetbags were standing around listening, not wanting to get off the boat until he finished the song.

  Joe had traveled alone from just above Memphis. Rebel marksmen firing at the riverboat had accidentally killed his mother and little sister. Joe’s mother had taken them to the pilothouse to get a good view and see how the boat was driven. They were not there a minute when bullets shattered the window, leaving Joe’s mother and sister dead, and him alone. Dr. Taylor had come unstrung when he had received the horrible news.

  Joe, his mother, and sister were on the boat because his father had decided it would be safer for his family to stay with his wife’s family in Texas and wait the war out. Dr. Taylor was to help them get to Texas once they got off the boat at Helena. With Joe’s mother gone, Dr. Taylor kept him at Helena.

  Peter listened now, as the playing grew closer. He loved to hear Joe play.

  Peter put down the hoe and file and hid by the barn door. He saw Joe tucking the harmonica into his shirt pocket. As he reached the kitchen door, Peter leaped out. “Boo!”

  Joe jumped and turned. He laughed. “That was a good one, Peter. You gave me a start, I tell you.”

  Katie Bea opened the door. “You two get in here and stop that deviltry.”

  Dr. Taylor was sitting at the table when the two boys went in. Peter instantly knew something was wrong—Dr. Taylor was staring at the lamp and not watching them as they walked in. Peter always noticed those things, but Joe never did. He didn’t now as he raced past Peter to get to the washbasin first.