Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Curtis cried louder. The Rebel raised his hand to slap Curtis, “Quit that blabbering, mind ya, or I’ll give you what he just got.”

  Joe scrambled to his feet. “Give me my hat!”

  The Rebel pointed the revolver at Joe. In his face, it looked like a stovepipe. “I’ll give you a hole in the head,” the man said.

  Two horsemen pulled up to the man. One was a captain. Other men galloped on.

  “Put that weapon down, you fool,” the captain said. He dismounted from his horse.

  “The youngun there had this,” the man said shaking Joe’s kepi.

  “Get on that damn animal and head back to LaGrange,” the captain ordered.

  The man grabbed his horse.

  “Give me my hat,” Joe said.

  “Joe, let him have it,” Curtis said, whimpering and wiping his nose.

  “Hell, no. I want it back.” Joe stood straight with his fist tight at his sides.

  The man looked at the captain and threw it back at Joe. He mounted the horse and raced back down the road.

  “Boys, what are y’all doing here?” the captain asked.

  Curtis sniffled, “We—we—”

  “Keep quiet, Curtis. We don’t have to tell them nothing.”

  The captain studied Joe for a minute, then turned to the other soldier. “Corporal, tell the lieutenant not to get too close to Helena. Bring them on back. The colonel is sure to be at LaGrange wanting to know the particulars.” The corporal leaped on his animal and galloped hard toward Helena.

  “Why won’t you boys talk to me? I’m from Arkansas, too.” He pointed to the dead Yankees. “There is the enemy, not me.”

  “He was—he was trying to surrender,” Curtis whimpered.

  “Yeah, and your man shot him in the face,” Joe said.

  The captain pulled his hat off and raked his fingers through his dusty hair. Joe saw the top of his left ear was gone, probably shot away in a previous battle.

  “That’s bad for sure,” the captain said. He put his hat back on and looked straight into Joe’s eyes. “But boys, they do the same to our men. They captured ten of our boys a while back, and not one made it to Helena. They drowned them. This is war, and war is just plain mean. We all do bad things, and that man Franklin that shot these boys here is the worst. He saw three of his brothers shot to death with a cannon, and now he aims to kill all the Yankees single-handed.” He turned to Curtis. “Where are you from, boy?”

  “Helena.”

  “Don’t talk to him, Curtis.”

  “Mind you, I’ll talk if I want to. Your pa is fighting for General Lee, and you won’t talk to our own army.”

  “How many soldiers they got in Helena, son?”

  “A whole bunch,” Curtis said.

  “More than three thousand, maybe four or five,” Joe said, placing his kepi back on. “You aim to attack Helena?”

  “No. Just wondering what they had over there. The number of cannon and things like that.”

  “Captain, they have a fort and some mighty big guns. They will give you a cocked hat if you climb those hills to get to the town, and that’s a fact.”

  The captain smiled at Joe, then looked toward the direction of Helena. His men were coming back.

  “Have they been digging?” the captain asked.

  The boys looked at each other, puzzled.

  “Have they been digging?” The captain asked again. “Trenches, breastworks?”

  “They’ve been digging graves for their men that have died of sickness,” Joe said.

  Slowly he looked down at the dead Yankee with the bullet hole in his head. He really saw the man’s face for the first time—at least with his own mind clear and not the worry of being found in the tree. Suddenly he felt sick and found it hard to keep from crying.

  The captain mounted his horse. “Son, I would advise you to not wear that hat in this country.”

  Joe reached up absently to pull it off, but stopped before his hand made it to the kepi. He slowly lowered his hand and kept his gaze on the dead Yankee.

  “Captain.” Joe couldn’t stop his voice from quivering. “War is horrible, ain’t it?”

  The captain followed Joe’s gaze to the dead man. “Yeah, son, as horrible as it gets.”

  “I watched that man get shot. I looked straight into his eyes when he was on the ground and didn’t even noti...” Joe wiped his eyes. “Captain, that man’s name is Lieutenant Nathan Randall from Iowa.” Joe looked up at the captain, pulled the kepi tight on his head and squaring his shoulders. “He’s the man that gave me this kepi about a month ago. I believe I’ll wear it.”

  The captain nodded, looked at Joe for a long minute, wheeled the horse around, and joined his men heading back toward LaGrange.

  As the Rebel troopers rumbled by, Joe looked back down at the dead man one last time. Now he realized war was not just a stray bullet shot into a pilothouse from some unknown shooter or the pain of having to leave your father behind in Virginia. War did something to you inside when you witnessed it up close—something indescribable and horrible.

  “Joe, let’s go home,” Curtis said.

  Joe took one final look at dead Nathan Randall. How did he not recognize Nathan when the man was looking up at him in the tree? Did he know me? Joe wondered. It is the last Nathan will see of war. Joe hoped it was the last he would see of it, too.

  They started back toward Helena. Joe pulled his harmonica from his pocket and tried to play Home Sweet Home. A week earlier, he had played the song much prettier for Lieutenant Randall as a trade for the kepi.

  Chapter 3

  “Bless it!” Peter dropped the hammer and shoved his thumb into his mouth; he should have been paying more attention to fixing the gate, instead of watching the Yankees. He couldn’t help it; something was going on around town. The Yankees were busier than before, a lot more drill and urgency about everything. They even worked in yesterday’s rain. They were digging in the surrounding hills west of town and fussing over the cannons up there—even right behind the house. There was more excitement now than last month when the bushwhackers ambushed the Iowa cavalry, killing so many of those troopers.

  Peter placed another board on the gate and nailed it in place without hitting his thumb again. As he finished with the last nail, he heard swearing and laughing coming from the other side of the house. When he went around there, it was as he had suspected. Joe was the one laughing. He was always the one in the middle of it. Heck, he witnessed the shooting of those troopers. He was drawn to trouble like flies to honey—maybe he drew the trouble instead of the other way around.

  A wagon had stalled in the road with the tongue lying in the muddy street. Two soldiers, Sergeant Davis and a private, were trying to back two stubborn mules back to the wagon.

  “Back up there, you hardheaded mules,” Joe said, “and you four-legged ones need to back up, too.” He slapped his leg and laughed.

  “Damn you, boy,” Sergeant Davis said. “If you’re the one that fixed this wagon, I’m going to fix you.” He slid and tripped in the mud. The private fell over him. The mules spooked and trotted down the street.

  “This is why y’all are up here and not at Vicksburg. General Grant wants to win.” Joe went to his knees, laughing.

  A short piece down the street, Lucius halted the mules. He wrapped his huge hands around their noses. “Whoa, mules.” They tried to throw their heads, but Lucius held them. He forced them back to the wagon. “Back, mules, back.”

  “Look there,” Davis said to the private. “Now there’s a man that knows how to handle animals.”

  Peter stood next to Joe as Lucius helped the soldiers hook the team back to the wagon. “Did you see that?” Peter said, pointing to the mules.

  “What?” Joe asked.

  “The way Lucius forced those animals back.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s a strong one.”

  Peter looked down at Joe; he was watching the men and giggling. Joe thought nothing of Lucius’s strength—no
t really. If Lucius were to pick up one of the mules, Joe would probably believe he could pick up the other one himself. Peter shook his head. Now that Peter thought about it, Joe was probably the one that sabotaged the wagon.

  The soldiers boarded the wagon, and Davis flipped Lucius a coin.

  “Obliged, Massuh,” Lucius said, showing teeth.

  “Hey, boy,” Davis said, looking at Joe. “Let him take care whoever tries to come it over on Sergeant John Davis. That’s a fact.”

  “Pshaw.” Joe waved the warning away. “I wasn’t born in the woods to be scared by no owl.”

  Lucius approached the boys as the wagon creaked down the street. Peter was almost six feet tall, and Lucius towered over him. Peter instinctively stepped back, remembering how Lucius handled the mules.

  “Is Dr. Taylor home?” Lucius asked.

  He was looking at Peter, but Joe answered. “Yeah, he told me to tell you to go around to the parlor door. He’s expecting you.”

  Lucius started for the house, but Joe grabbed his shirtsleeve.

  “How did you make those mules back up like that?”

  Lucius reached down, grabbed Joe under the arms, and picked him up to his eye level as if he were a feather.

  Peter’s heart raced. He couldn’t let this big man hurt Joe.

  “Them there mules,” Lucius said, “they’s scared of me.”

  Lucius glared at Joe. He was dark, and his eyes were coal black, surrounded by whitish yellow. Peter thought of a cat.

  Joe smiled. “Yeah, mules are funny like that I reckon. Back home, I saw one act plumb crazy when a little mouse ran through the feed trough.”

  A smile slowly grew on Lucius’s face until his teeth showed so white that they were in perfect contrast with the rest of him. He hawed a deep baritone laugh.

  Peter breathed easier as Lucius put Joe down and went for the parlor door.

  ***

  Katie Bea let Lucius in. “You can wait here in the parlor, Lucius. Dr. Taylor be with you in a spell.”

  “Obliged.”

  When Katie Bea left the room, Lucius looked the parlor over. He had never been allowed in a fine home before. A big rug covered most of the floor, fancy curtains on the windows, and pretty furniture, probably soft; he was sure he would never find out. The room smelled like a cedar tree, not like rotting hay or musky blankets, as he was used to. There was a huge fireplace; he had never seen such a sight. Above it hang a big painting covered in glass, and in it, he could see the reflection of Dr. Taylor in an adjoining room. He was getting money from a metal box on his desk. Lucius could see something gold by the box, maybe a watch. Dr. Taylor placed the gold object back in the box and closed the lid before Lucius could tell what it was. Then Dr. Taylor sat at the desk and started writing in a book.

  Lucius found the writing not worth watching, so he looked around the room more. This time he noticed the subject of the picture: a white woman.

  The last thing he needed was to be caught looking, so he scanned the hall and adjoining doorways to make sure no one was watching.

  The woman had pale skin, almost a real white—not darker white like most white people. Her hair was brown and tied high on her head, and she was smiling, but it wasn’t a real smile; it was a picture smile. She wore a gold necklace.

  Lucius moved closer. The necklace seemed familiar, but how could it? He had never been that close to a white woman—never. He had never been that close to a picture either. There was something about the necklace. It had two gold birds with red glass eyes. They were in a gold circle with small white glass stones. The birds were either kissing or feeding each other.

  “What are you gawking at?” Katie Bea had appeared at the hall door holding a plate.

  “I’s not gawking.”

  Katie Bea lowered her voice. “Dr. Taylor catch you looking at Mrs. Taylor in that fashion, he’ll have you skint.”

  So, it was Dr. Taylor’s dead wife.

  “Here, take this plate and keep your attention on this here food. You sit there on that hard chair.” She pointed to a rocking chair by the window. “Don’t you spill none on the floor.”

  “Thank you. You is a kind woman.”

  She started for the hall, stopped, looked back, and then shut the hall door as she left.

  Lucius tried not to look, but there was something about that necklace. It would come to him. He always remembered—sometimes he had to study on it, but he always remembered. Black folks had to remember. Yes, they had to remember if they wanted to hand down history.

  Lucius was sopping the last of the bean juice when Dr. Taylor came from the study. Lucius shot to his feet. He had the feeling of being caught doing something wrong.

  “I see Katie Bea prepared you something to eat.”

  “Yessuh. She a fine woman.”

  “Let me take that plate.” Dr. Taylor set the plate on the mantle. “Lucius, I wanted to see you, not only to pay you your wages, but I may need you to do more.”

  “Yessuh, anything you say.”

  Dr. Taylor counted out the coins and dropped them in Lucius’s calloused hands. They felt nice. They were cold and shiny, and they clinked as he placed them there one by one.

  Dr. Taylor looked up at Lucius. “You ever made this much money before?”

  “I’s never made no money before. I’s never even had no money before.”

  Lucius studied Dr. Taylor’s gentle face. If there were such a thing as a good white man, maybe he was one.

  “I need you to help me out,” Dr. Taylor said. “I need you to keep an eye on Theo. I suspect he is drinking whiskey and even taking laudanum while at work.”

  “Yessuh, Mas—Dr. Taylor. If you will forgive a darky, why don’t you hire somebody else beside Massuh Theo, another white man?”

  “There is no one else in town that can do the work that Theo does. The qualified people left when the Yankees came. Well, there are some, but they think my buying cotton from the Yankees is a horrible deed. Oh, I know there is a lot of corruption going on—I’m no fool, but if it can help some of these farmers hang on until this horrible war is over by me purchasing cotton, so much the better.”

  Lucius nodded at the doctor’s every word, but he was thinking differently: you can fill your fat pockets with money from the thieving Yankees, and it is fine by me if you want to fool yourself.

  “Will you help me out, Lucius?”

  “What you need me to do?”

  Dr. Taylor smiled and opened the door. “Just do the job you were hired for, helping around the store, and when I’m not there, keep an eye on Theo. That’s all you have to do. There will be a little extra money in it for you.”

  “But why trust ole Lucius?”

  “When Peter’s not there to look after Theo, you’re all I have. I’m hoping I can trust you. You wouldn’t betray me would you, Lucius?”

  “Oh, no suh. I’s always been a good and trusty nigger. You can count on Lucius to do the good thing. Yessuh.”

  He felt the doctor pat his back just before he shut the door.

  Keep an eye on the fat white man. He could do that. He could keep an eye on many things.

  Lucius walked down the street back toward the store. He passed a black woman with her son in tow. He knew she was looking for work, too. The contrabands came from the filthy camps every day and begged the Yankees for something to do to keep from starving, just as he had, but he was lucky to meet Dr. Taylor. A few men cut wood for the steamboats or joined the new black regiments. Lucius wouldn’t. He wanted his freedom now, and the army didn’t seem like freedom to him. The women looked for work as cooks, washerwomen, or seamstresses, but many went hungry anyway. Too bad for them.

  Lucius turned as he passed the woman and child. Suddenly he remembered—he knew he would. He didn’t believe in God—no, he had seen too much hell on earth, but some power must have led him to Dr. Taylor’s home. Something led him to that necklace. Oh yes, he remembered it real good now.

  ***

  Joe ran his ha
nd along the cannon. It was hot on top, but cool on bottom, even in the late June scorcher.

  From this high ridge west of town, he could see all of Helena: below the Catholic Church, Uncle Wilbur’s house left of that, Fort Curtis with its large guns, far left, and the Mississippi River on the other side of town—he could see steamboats on it. They appeared small from atop the hill. One had guns sticking from it like a floating pincushion. The town had a blue tint with all of the Union soldiers about it. They spilled out of the town and along the river. The biggest Negro camp lay south. Three more hilltops had cannons on them, too, and the troops had dug large ditches far in front of the cannons. The big guns were trained on the roads leading into town. He saw trees had been cut and now blocked the roads. The troops had been working up on the ridges for weeks, and they were still digging and bracing.

  “What do you think of all of this work, Joe?” Captain Varner asked. He placed his hand on the cannon beside Joe’s hand.

  Joe looked around again. “Sure are a lot of guns.”

  Joe liked Captain Bob Varner. He had red hair and always smiled, but he couldn’t understand how Captain Varner and the rest of the Missourians could be Yankees. It didn’t make sense. He knew there were Missouri regiments in the Confederate army. How could it be both ways?

  “Yeah,” Captain Varner said. “I just hope it is enough to stop the Rebels.” He patted the gun.

  “Do you really believe they will attack Helena?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked down at Joe. “I hope not. God, I hope not.” He pulled his cap off and swatted at a wasp trying to enter the cannon muzzle.

  “Do you hate the Confederates?” Joe asked, and took a swat at the wasp, but missed, too.

  “No, I don’t hate them.” He put his cap back on. “I don’t hate anyone.”

  “Then why did you join the Yankee army?”

  Captain Varner stared down the road to the west. “I don’t remember anymore.” He thought for a long minute. “I guess to preserve the Union. I don’t know.” He looked at Joe. “That must sound strange to a young boy like you—me not remembering why I joined up to fight.”