Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Peter blessed the food—he always did. He felt it an honor, and he knew the Bible better than most.

  Joe grabbed a roll at amen and crammed it into his mouth. Peter smiled, but tried not to laugh, because he could tell Dr. Taylor was not up to that.

  Dr. Taylor looked up from his plate. “Joseph, what did you do today?”

  Peter knew Dr. Taylor already knew the answer. He always knew when he asked that way, and Joe had usually been up to no good.

  “I’ve been with Curtis all day,” Joe said, shoveling a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.

  “I told you not to go to the contraband camp,” Dr. Taylor said.

  Peter saw Joe suddenly stop chewing. Joe was caught like a rabbit in a trap.

  “Lucius is lying. I never went to the Negro camp.”

  “I haven’t seen Lucius,” Dr. Taylor said.

  Peter choked on his milk. Joe fell for that every time. Joe knew how to get into trouble easier than anyone, but he had no clue how to get out.

  “Dr. Roy saw you there,” Dr. Taylor said. “Other than a few of the missionaries, white people are as plentiful as hen’s teeth in those shanty camps.”

  Joe didn’t say anything, but he chewed more slowly.

  “Boy, a few of the lucky ones in those camps are being shipped north. I’m afraid the vast remainders are subject to deprivation and all manner of disease. God knows we are subject to catch something here, with all these soldiers coming down with this or that, without you going out there, too. Above that, I forbade you to go there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joe said. “I’m sorry, Uncle Wilbur. I won’t listen to Curtis again.”

  Peter wanted to laugh aloud. Joe had never followed Curtis—never. Joe was the leader.

  “I never saw Dr. Roy,” Joe said. He poked a spoonful of peas into his mouth.

  “He was a good distance from you, and to be honest, he said he just saw two white boys. I added two and two.”

  “Speaking of Dr. Roy, why don’t you doctor here like you did in Pennsylvania?”

  Peter wished Joe would not ask such questions. Peter knew the answer.

  “We’ll talk on that another time,” Dr. Taylor said. He pushed his chair away from the table and placed his napkin by his plate. He took his hat from the hat rack. “I’ve got to go to the store for a spell.”

  “Ain’t the supper fitting?” Katie Bea asked.

  “It was first rate, but I forgot I told the new man that he could stay in the back of the store. I need to stroll down there and check in on him.”

  Joe was gulping his milk and almost strangled. “Uncle Wilbur, wait. I would like to go with Curtis tomorrow to see his Granny at LaGrange.”

  “LaGrange!” Katie Bea said. “Lawd sakes, that is five miles or more.”

  “After pulling your shines today, you expect me to let you go?” Dr. Taylor said.

  “If I don’t go, Curtis will have to go alone.”

  Dr. Taylor thought on it for a minute. “All right, just wait until the sun is good and high. I know Mrs. Wilmar will watch out for you. And Joseph, the cavalry is skirting the town. Don’t hide if you see them. Make sure they see you in the open. I don’t want them mistaking you for a bushwhacker. Understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Peter saw Dr. Taylor smile as he walked out the door. Joe sure could come it over him.

  “Aunt Katie Bea, why don’t Uncle Wilbur doctor much anymore?” Joe crammed another roll in his mouth.

  “He just don’t.”

  “But why?”

  “Hush up, boy. You ask too many fool questions. Finish your supper.”

  Peter thought about it; maybe when they were alone he would tell Joe about Pennsylvania.

  Peter stared at his plate, remembered it too clearly. It seemed the whole town had the fever. Peter sure had it, and he never would forget; he was weak as a kitten. Dr. Taylor worked around the clock, helped everyone, and everyone recovered, except for one: Mrs. Hattie Taylor, his wife.

  Dr. Taylor had blamed himself. No one could talk sense to him. He quit his practice and most days he sat in his study, day in and day out. But one day he came home from a short trip and told Peter and his mother to pack; they were bound for Arkansas.

  Katie Bea didn’t want to leave Pennsylvania and go back down south. She had her freedom now and was afraid to go to Arkansas. However, she finally relented; Dr. Taylor and Mrs. Taylor were all the family she and Peter had. With Mrs. Taylor gone, she figured she had better take care of Dr. Taylor.

  That had been over five years ago. It seemed as if it were yesterday.

  “Peter,” Katie Bea said. “Peter.”

  “Uh—Oh!” Peter felt embarrassed for daydreaming.

  “You can study that plate all you want to, but you might get more out of it if you eats something on it,” Katie Bea said.

  Joe laughed and sprayed potatoes on the table.

  Peter laughed back as Katie Bea hit Joe with a towel.

  ***

  The sun was peeking over the river when Joe and Curtis exchanged dirt clods with the pickets. Joe escaped without a wound, but Curtis caught one in the back; however, the boys faired better than the Iowans, who were still cussing and laughing when the boys went down the hill and out of sight.

  Away from the hills of Helena and Crowley’s Ridge lay farmland. Many of the fields were unplowed and littered with weeds, but here and there was a plot of corn or a patch of cotton, coming up green in the warm weather. The boys saw a few Negroes chopping, and they waved as the boys passed. Joe wondered why a few loyal servants stayed with their master when the Yankees were practically here at the door.

  Large houses were in ruins. Some were missing sides or fronts where the lumber had been stripped. Broken furniture littered the yards, and ragged, abandoned clothes hung from the bushes. But the things that stood out the most were the many chimneys where the houses hand been burned to the ground. They stood silent and lonely like giant tombstones.

  In contrast, some houses remained whole and were even occupied. Gardens grew nearby. They saw dogs and cats in the dooryards, but few farm animals—chickens and pigs were prized by the soldiers, blue and gray.

  As the boys passed by a small house close to the road, an old man sitting on the porch called for the boys to come over. Dust squirted between Curtis’s toes as they stepped from the road and up to the ragged gate. The old man was digging in a corncob with a knife. Joe reckoned he was making a new pipe.

  “You boys a coming from Helena way?” he asked, still digging in the cob.

  Joe leaped upon the porch to get a better look at the cob. Curtis stayed in the yard.

  “Yes, sir,” Joe said.

  The man shot brown spit over the porch rail.

  “We’re going to LaGrange to see Curtis’s Granny,

  Mrs. Wilmar.”

  “Mrs. Wilmar? Bertha Wilmar?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right.”

  The man looked down at Curtis. “Well, I’ll be damned, right here and right now. You’s little Curtis Wilmar.”

  Curtis climbed onto the porch. “Yes, sir.”

  “Boy, you has growed a heap since I last seed you.” The man turned to the door and called, “Bess. Bess, come look who’s here.” No one came. The old man scratched his head. “Reckon she’s out by the barn picking them damn blackberries again. She’s going to get chiggers, I swear.”

  Curtis hesitated, but asked the man’s name.

  “Confounded boy. I’m Frank Crawford. I knowed your folks all my life. I’s been away a time, but the war has brung me back.”

  Curtis smiled big, moved closer. “Yes, sir, I remember you. You use to help Pappy with his hay.”

  “That’s a fact—that’s a fact. Me and your Pappy growed up together in Kentucky.” He hit Curtis on the arm. “Now tell me why you two boys is a coming down this here road. It’s the long way to LaGrange.”

  “My uncle said the other road was too dangerous,” Joe said.

  “Why, I spec
t your uncle is probably right on that head. Who’s your folks?”

  “I’m from Virginia. My father is fighting for General Lee.”

  “Do tell. You got people in Helena?”

  “I’m staying with my uncle. He lives there now, but he was from Pennsylvania.”

  Frank frowned. He spit again and stared at Joe. “He a Yankee?”

  Joe stared back at the man. “No, sir, he’s a doctor.”

  “Something happen to Dr. Roy?”

  “No, sir. My uncle don’t doctor anymore, except when Dr. Roy needs help. He runs a store.”

  “Don’t doctor no more? I ain’t never heard such truck.”

  “That’s a fact,” Curtis said.

  “Ba!” Frank said. “That’s just like a Yankee.”

  Joe realized right then he didn’t like this old frog.

  “Tell me Curtis, what is them Yankees up to in Helena?”

  “They just drill and march around. A lot of them are dying of consumption and the like. They’re burying them all over the place.”

  Frank smiled. “Now ain’t that first chop.”

  “We better get going,” Joe said. He wanted to get away from this man before he said what a boy shouldn’t.

  “Wait right there. I’ll be right back.” Frank set the cob down and went into the house. He reappeared shortly holding a small sack. He handed it to Curtis. “Take this here to your Pappy. He probably ain’t crossed the picket line to get none.”

  Joe could smell the coffee.

  “You boys see anybody, ya’ll chunk it into the weeds. Don’t tell nobody where you got it.”

  “Did you get that coffee from the Yankees you don’t care for?” Joe said.

  Frank spit again, this time he hit the porch rail. “Maybe I killed one of them Yankees and took it.”

  Joe stepped off the porch and headed to the road. “I doubt it.”

  ***

  Joe and Curtis traveled farther from Helena and saw fewer fields and houses. Crowley’s Ridge rose high to the east. It resembled a small, long mountain, running north and south. Joe knew better. It was actually a maze of steep hills and deep gullies. A few roads cut through it, but other than that, it was almost impossible to travel through. He and Curtis had tromped all through it, eating beechnuts and muscadines, and playing war. However, that was before the Yankees had become jumpy. Now it was too dangerous—they would shoot you for a bushwhacker.

  About four miles from LaGrange Joe heard a rumbling coming from the direction of Helena. He turned to see a large cloud of dust rising.

  “Come on, Curtis, let’s hide behind the trees,” Joe said, leaping off the road.

  Curtis stood. “No, we told the folks we would stay to the road.”

  “Nation, Curtis, we’ll smother in the dust. In case you haven’t noticed, this road is dusty, not like the muddy streets in town.”

  Curtis wouldn’t budge. Joe kicked the hickory he was standing behind and trudged back to the road. He wouldn’t leave his friend standing there alone. He pushed Curtis’s shoulder, almost knocking him over. “Chicken.”

  The rumbling grew and the big cloud drew near. As the troopers neared, Joe saw the horses were only in a slow trot, but still the dust rose like smoke.

  When the Yankee troopers came along side, Joe heard one call his name, and one passing by reached over and knocked Joe’s kepi from his head. Soon it was too dusty to recognize anybody, and Joe and Curtis raised their shirts over their faces. Confound Curtis, Joe thought. If he wasn’t so all-fired scared, we would be in the woods and out of this dust.

  It only took a few minutes for the troopers to pass, but it seemed forever to Joe. He didn’t know how many there were—at least a hundred or two. It seemed like a whole army when you were standing next to them eating their dust.

  Joe beat at the dust on his clothes and gave Curtis another push.

  They had walked for another mile or two when they came upon a large tree; some of its large limbs hung over the road. When they got closer, Joe saw the berries in the road; it was a huge mulberry tree. Bunches of birds were swaying the limbs like a breeze.

  Yellow, red, and green parakeets were squawking and fluttering about the tree, along with an assortment of other birds. Joe tossed a stick at the birds. Some flew out, but circled and came right back. The parakeets walked on the limbs and hung upside-down. Joe laughed at them—they seemed awkward compared to the other flitty birds.

  “I’m going to get me some of them mulberries, too,” Joe said. He shimmied up the leaning trunk.

  Curtis set the bag of coffee down and climbed up, too.

  Their fingers and faces soon turned purple from the fruit. They laughed and threw berries at each other. They threw berries at the parakeets, which had worked their way to the other side of the tree. The birds seemed to have gotten used to the boys and continued gorging on the berries.

  Joe had grown hot walking on the road; now in the tree it seemed much cooler. He believed he could play up there all day. There wasn’t a worry in the world—no Dr. Roy to tell on him, no Katie Bea to make him clean up, and no Uncle Wilbur to give him a whipping.

  Suddenly a bird messed right on Joe’s nose. Curtis laughed so hard, he almost lost his grip on the limb. Joe smeared it off with a leaf. Then he stood on a large limb with his back to Curtis and unbuttoned his pants.

  “What are you doing?” Curtis asked.

  Joe didn’t answer, just started giggling. Soon he was peeing down on the road.

  “Hey! Don’t get Pappy’s coffee wet.”

  “I ain’t going to get the old coffee wet. I can aim like a rifle.”

  Curtis chucked berries at Joe while he was peeing.

  Joe tried to write his name in the dust on the road, but he kept giggling and pee went everywhere. Finally, he finished. “Don’t you have to go, Curtis?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t go from no tree,” Curtis said. “I might fall and break my neck.”

  “Pshaw,” Joe said. “I ain’t scared of falling. I can climb like a squirrel. Watch this.” He tucked his kepi into his pants, wrapped his legs around the big limb, and rolled under the limb. He swung upside-down. “Look, I’m a parakeet. Yahoo—yippy—”

  “Joe, listen! Listen! Be quiet!”

  Still hanging upside-down, Joe fell silent. He heard popping sounds coming from the direction of LaGrange.

  “What is it?” Curtis asked.

  “Gun shots.” Joe climbed back up onto the limb.

  Joe listened as the firing intensified. He saw the dust rising in the distance. It grew closer, and he heard the rumbling of hooves.

  “Let’s get down and hide,” Curtis said.

  Now he wants to hide. “No, they will go right under us. All we have to do is be still.”

  “What do you reckon it is?” Curtis asked.

  “We’ll soon find out. Here they come.”

  Soon the lathered horses were thundering under the tree with the blue troopers whipping them hell-bent-for-leather. Joe saw some of the saddles were empty, and some horses had red paint on their backs. A strange feeling came over him. There should be Yankees on those saddles. Where were they?

  Dust floated up into the tree and Joe gagged. He smelled the horses as they pounded under him. The dust soon blocked his view, but not before he saw the look on the men’s faces: absolute fright. They looked as if they had seen a horrible monster. He could think of nothing else that could scare someone so.

  He heard more popping coming from down the road, and through the dust, he could barely see the gray troopers coming. Then he heard a yell and a thump under the tree. The dust moved away enough for him to see that one of the Yankees had been shot from his horse.

  The young trooper rolled over on his back, and at that instant, he looked straight at Joe. Looking into those eyes, Joe felt the terror. The man seemed to stare forever—pleading for help, but it was only a brief second, and Joe saw the man realize there was no help in that tree. The man scrambled to his feet, holding his
left arm. As he stood, Joe saw another trooper had come back for him. As the horseman bent, Joe heard a shot and saw a red spot magically appear in the middle of the man’s chest, and he toppled from the horse. The trooper on the ground grabbed for the reins.

  A Rebel reined his own horse next to the Yankee. Joe looked back down the road and saw this man had outdistanced the rest. The man pointed his revolver at the Yankee.

  “I’m your prisoner,” the Yankee said.

  “Good, very good indeed. We treat our prisoner like y’all treat y’all’s,” the Rebel said, then shot the man in the face.

  The Rebel climbed down from the horse and looked back toward the approaching gray troopers.

  Joe heard his own blood swooshing and pounding in his ears. He prayed the cold-blooded killer couldn’t hear it. He tried not to breathe, but he was panting like a dog.

  The man went through the Yankee’s pockets. He pulled a ring from the dead man’s finger, then noticed the sack of coffee, picked it up, and smiled.

  Joe saw a stream of water trickling down and splashing near the man. Then it moved up onto the man’s hat. Joe followed the stream up. Curtis was sprawled on a big limb with one of his legs hanging, and pee was dripping from his big toe. Joe looked at Curtis’s face. Curtis looked back at him. He was crying and shaking. Joe looked back down at the man. Please don’t let him notice.

  But the man did notice. He looked around, then looked up and saw the boys. He pulled his revolver. “Shit!” He stepped away from the pee, pulling his hat off and shaking it.

  Curtis cried, “Don’t shoot—don’t shoot!”

  “Shut up, and you boys come down out of that damn tree.”

  As the boys climbed down, other troopers galloped by chasing the Yankees. Curtis hit the ground first, and the man shoved him to the ground. Curtis whimpered. One pants leg had a wet streak down it.

  “You pissed on me, boy!”

  When Joe’s feet touched the ground, the Rebel jerked the Union kepi from Joe’s pants. “What do we have here?”

  Joe looked at Curtis and felt sorry for his friend. He turned on the man. “What does it look like?” Joe tried to take the kepi from him. The soldier backhanded him, knocking him to the ground.