Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

Cannons thundered again, jarring more plaster from the ceiling. Both men instinctively ducked.

  “Private, you can tell the colonel my family is my first responsibility.”

  “Doctor, two of our surgeons are in the hospital with malaria. The colonel has ordered me to bring you at the point of the bayonet if I have to.” He looked at the barricade. “Sir, your family will be as safe there as anywhere else with you there or not.”

  Joe stood to crawl across the sofa, but Peter pulled him back down. How dare that private threaten his uncle?

  Dr. Taylor grabbed his bag off the table and turned to the barricade. “I will be back soon. You just stay right there. Peter, take care of them while I am gone.”

  After the door closed, Joe turned to Peter and Katie Bea.

  Katie Bea had her face in her hands, sobbing. Peter’s eyes were closed tight, and though he was silent, his lips were moving rapidly forming just the right words for God to hear.

  Joe agreed it was a good idea to pray. He wondered if the soldiers were praying. Then he remembered Captain Varner. He wondered if he was facing his Rebel brother up on Graveyard Hill. It occurred to Joe: were brothers praying for each other at the same time they were fighting each other?

  ***

  Lucius stared out the backdoor. He didn’t frighten easily, but the hell going on in the hills scared the hell out of him. He had once seen fireworks, but nothing compared with this. The very earth shook as the cannons from the fort pounded.

  A heavy fog floated about three feet above the ground; everything below the level of the fog was clear, everything above was lost in a ghostly cloud, only the explosive flashes cut through it. After a while, the stinking smoke from the guns mingled with the fog, creating a horrible stew.

  Lucius went back into the room, had to think. If the Rebels took the town, the Negroes would be rounded up like cattle, just as Theo had said.

  The cannons fired again, jarring items from the shelves in the store.

  He went into the dark store. It was dawning, but the fog and smoke denied the light. He lit the lamp on the counter and picked it up. It slowly glowed bright. Shadows played like ghosts as he looked about the store.

  Suddenly a loud noise rang out beside his head—his breath caught in his throat. He swung the lamp around. The light fell on the wall clock as it chimed four times. He took a deep breath, and went back to looking around the store.

  He knew what he was looking for, but he didn’t know where they were kept. He had seen Theo sell one. He searched all of the shelves; then he remembered. He moved around behind the counter and placed the lamp on it. He slid a wooden box from under the counter. Knives of all types were in the box, and their blades reflected the yellow lamplight. He found the one he wanted, a long Bowie Knife, about a foot long with a leather sheath. He tested the blade—it was sharp. He raised his trouser leg and crammed the knife into his boot.

  He went back to the back room, gathered his few belongings, and wrapped them in a blanket. He blew the lamp out and cracked the backdoor just enough to see the battle going on behind the town. If the gray backs took the town, he knew what he would have to do.

  ***

  How long would this go on, Peter wondered. Surely everyone was dead by now. It was after 8:00 and the shooting continued in all directions it seemed.

  The Taylor house was situated between the fort and the hills. When the big guns from the fort joined the fight, Peter felt as if the cannon balls would come right through the parlor.

  “I can’t stand this,” Joe said, and scrambled across the barricade. He fell on his face, then got to his knees and crawled to the window.

  “Joseph!” Katie Bea screamed.

  Jesus, the boy is crazy, Peter thought.

  Peter climbed the sofa and chairs and ran to where Joe was staring out the window.

  He grabbed Joe’s arm. “Have you lost your—” He saw where Joe was looking. The fog was shifting; some places it was heavy, and others it was disappearing like cooling steam. Through the broken cloud of fog and smoke, he saw gray soldiers at the top of Graveyard Hill. In the center of the soldiers, he saw a nightmare—the Confederate’s flags. “Oh God, no.”

  The house rocked again as the cannons from the fort fired, but he could not move. Suddenly dirt erupted around some of the Confederate soldiers and they disappeared in an instant, as if the hand of God had plucked them from earth. More of the tiny men vanished as the cannons on the other hills shot at the Rebels. Peter found himself fixed, could not look away. It wasn’t real—it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. God would not let anything be so horrible—except for hell.

  All at once, a screaming streak came from the river and ran over the city like a trail of brimstone. It screamed like fury, then exploded among the Confederates. A great gap opened up in the men: brown and gray and red. It appeared to Peter as if the lower region, itself, had opened up to swallow the men. Still he could not look away. He could not believe. He could not move. No man would allow such things to happen. No man would do this to another man.

  The screaming shell from the river came again, but this time it missed its mark and landed farther down the hill, closer to the house, exploding earth into chunks of brown spray.

  “The Tyler,” Joe whispered.

  Peter looked down at Joe instinctively, but he didn’t see him. His mind still saw the shells exploding among the men on the hill.

  “Those big explosions are shells from the Gunboat Tyler,” Joe whispered again.

  Peter looked out the window again. Soon the shell came across the town once more, screaming, whistling, screaming, and exploding.

  Screaming—screaming! Suddenly Peter felt a jolt in his brain. His head cleared, as if awakened from the worst of dreams, but it was no dream. Screaming—he realized his mother was screaming his name.

  Peter grabbed Joe and slung him under his arm. He raced back to the barricade and shoved Joe across. Katie Bea grabbed them both, hugged them in a frantic embrace.

  The screaming and exploding continued, again and again. It grew closer. It sounded to Peter as if it were crawling down the hill and toward the house like a serpent. He knew the Rebels were coming. The explosion told it as much as a town crier could.

  The house jarred violently. Windows shattered, mortar sprinkled from the fireplace and small boards fell with a rattle.

  “Lord God, help us!” Katie Bea prayed.

  The picture of Mrs. Taylor fell and smashed across Peter’s head. He felt no pain.

  Men were all around the house. Peter heard them swearing as they shot at the Rebels, heard the leads from the Rebel’s muskets thudding into the house.

  With the windows shattered, the sulfur smell of the spent gunpowder drifted into the house like a plague.

  Peter watched Joe coolly take his kepi off and shake the dust and glass from it. Joe started to rise again. Peter snatched him down. “Don’t you get up again! You hear me!”

  Joe ignored him, formed a queer look on his face. Peter wondered and then followed his gaze. A small hole had appeared in the sofa. It was ever so tiny.

  Peter’s heart pounded fast, faster than God meant for a heart to ever pound. He slowly turned. He didn’t want to look—he was afraid to see.

  A small trickle of blood oozed from a perfectly round hole in his mother’s neck. Her eyes looked far away. She folded into his arms. The battle outside didn’t matter anymore. It could have been on another planet—or in hell where it belonged.

  ***

  Joe almost pulled the door from its hinges. Smoke met him like a brick wall, and he had to stop when he staggered from the porch. The air smelled like rotten eggs.

  The big guns in the fort fired again. Joe covered his ears, but it was too late, and he suddenly heard humming in his head. A shingle slid from the house and hit his shoulder. Splinters flew around him as the mini balls struck the corner of the house like angry bees.

  The cloud of smoke drifted and Joe saw Yankees, like phantoms, all around the house,
shooting back toward the Confederates. They were yelling and cussing. One was lying in the garden—his eyes were open, but Joe knew they saw no more.

  Joe stepped away from the porch, saw Confederates coming toward the house—he thought of lava flowing from a volcano as they moved down the hill. Through the clouds of smoke, he saw the small puffs coming from their muzzles.

  He had to find Uncle Wilbur—never mind the Yankees or the Confederates. He reached to see if his kepi was in place—it was. He didn’t want to run through the town if it wasn’t—he didn’t want to look like a Confederate. He darted across the yard toward town. Immediately, he felt something tug at his shirt. He found a small hole in his sleeve. He ran faster.

  He ran through Yankees and out to the street. Red pain hit his face. He found himself on the ground, dazed for a second, then saw a bayonet stuck in the ground by his head. He followed it up to a wild-eyed Yankee. The man’s face changed as he recognized Joe.

  “Damn you, Joe, I nearly killed you!” The soldier jerked the bayonet from the earth and sprinted toward the house.

  Joe didn’t recognize the man. His face was black and smutty. Joe had seen the soldiers practice shooting, so he knew the black was from the man tearing open the paper powder cartridges with his teeth, and as black as the man was, he had shot a lot.

  Joe hurt, and he wanted to lie there, but there was no time—he had to find Uncle Wilbur.

  He hurried to his feet, charged between two houses, and now he could see the fort. Fire and smoke belched from the big guns. He threw his hands to his ears. It was all hell—nothing shorter. He ran east. He would have to go around the fort.

  As he barreled down the street, he looked back. The Confederates were still swarming off Graveyard Hill and down toward the house. Great holes were erupting in their ranks. The Gunboat Tyler was lobbing the screaming shells with devastating results.

  When he moved around to the east side of the fort, above the yelling and confusion, someone called his name. It was Sergeant Davis, a bandage around his head and a bag across his shoulder.

  “Dear God, boy! What are you doing? Did you come to see the elephant?”

  Joe didn’t know what in the world he was talking about.

  “Find you a hole to climb in, or you're going to get killed, boy!”

  “I’m looking for Uncle Wilbur.”

  “Lord, Joe, couldn’t you wait until after the damn fight?”

  “Katie Bea’s been shot!” Joe screamed above the battle.

  Davis shook his head slowly and grabbed Joe’s shoulder. “Look, boy, I can’t help you now. I’ve got to get back with these rounds.” He pointed toward some men. “Follow those wounded men. They’ll take you to the doctor, I’m sure.” He patted Joe’s arm and trotted south, followed by two more men with bags.

  Joe followed the wounded men into a house. He didn’t remember who owned the home, but he knew the Yankees had been using it for some kind of headquarters.

  The smell hit him first. It smelled like hog guts. Men were lying all over the floor; most were groaning, some were crying. One was even screaming and holding what was left of an arm. As Joe gawked at the screaming man’s arm, he tripped over a man on the floor. Joe looked down and saw a piece of pink gut hanging from the man’s belly. Joe looked away. It was like seeing something private that he shouldn’t see.

  Joe wandered into the next room. He found a surgeon attending a man lying on a table. Joe looked closer to see the table was really a door lying across two big chairs. The patient was swearing as the surgeon dug in his leg with some kind of fancy knife.

  “Joseph, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

  Joe turned. A table was next to the wall, and Dr. Taylor was wrapping a bandage around a man’s head.

  “Uncle Wilbur—Uncle Wilbur, Aunt Katie Bea’s been shot!”

  “Boy, I told you to stay there at the house.”

  Joe realized he hadn’t been understood. He grabbed Dr. Taylor’s arm. “Katie Bea has been shot.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Suddenly Joe could not see clearly—his eyes were filling with tears. He wiped at them with his sleeve. “I don’t think so.”

  The room shook from a volley of blasts from the fort.

  The surgeon told Dr. Taylor to go see about her. An assistant took the bandage from Dr. Taylor.

  Outside hell was still brewing. No one could have told a story as horrible as this. If Joe had not known better, he would have sworn it was Hell from the Bible.

  Colonel Russell stopped Joe and Dr. Taylor before they got to the house. His eyes were wild like a frightened horse. “Where in the hell do think you’re going?”

  “I’m going home. Katie Bea is injured,” Dr. Taylor said.

  “Damn it, Doctor, there are men dying all around us. This army will need you. The fighting is right behind your house. Hell, they may take your house any minute. You stay your ass right here!” He hit the ground with his sword tip.

  “I’m goin—”

  “Doctor, I don’t have time for this shit.” Colonel Russell stopped a running soldier. “Private, you don’t let this doctor go toward the fight. You keep him right here. He’s no good to this army dead.”

  The private saluted, and Colonel Russell went toward the fort.

  Dr. Taylor reluctantly relented.

  Joe wanted to go. He knew the private wouldn’t shoot them. “Uncle Wilbur, we have to see about Katie Bea.”

  The private raised his rifle.

  Dr. Taylor grabbed Joe’s shoulder. He spotted some wounded soldiers leaning against a shed and went to help them. “Joe, help me here.”

  Joe stared at the private. He would remember the man. What sort of a man would stand in the way of a doctor?

  “Joe, help me!” Doctor Taylor said.

  The battle raged, and more men came to the back of the shed to be tended. They found the doctor like flies find a dead dog. Dr. Taylor sent the more serious ones to the house with the surgeon. Joe assisted as best he could, but his mind was on the house just two blocks away and Katie Bea.

  Some Yankees brought up a few captured Rebels to be treated. They wouldn’t talk much, but when they did, they seemed angrier with their commander, General Holmes, than with the Yankees.

  One grumbled, “We have been betrayed by that old man. Only a handful of defenders in Helena—pshaw!”

  After about an hour, the battle sounds petered away. Slowly the cannons fell silent, and the smoke drifted toward Mississippi. The Yankees cheered. Joe looked around the shed to Graveyard Hill. The American flag had replaced the Confederate one.

  Joe stared up at the hill and felt the whole of his inside sink. Men in gray uniforms were strewn down the hill like a gray and red blanket. Blue soldiers walked among the dead Confederates. Joe’s eyes began to blur and the soldiers looked like blue Negroes in a gray cotton field.

  “Come on, boy,” Dr. Taylor said.

  Joe believed all of the Confederates were dead, but then cannons sang out north of town, but there wasn’t much to it.

  “Joe.” Dr. Taylor shook Joe’s arm. “Let’s go while the soldiers are rejoicing and while that private has his attention elsewhere.”

  They made their way toward the house. Yankees were everywhere, some cheering, some crying, and some escorting gray prisoners toward the river. All of the soldiers were smutty and black and wild.

  When they finally made it to the house, Joe’s thought of war disappeared. Katie Bea—what about Katie Bea? What about Peter? Were they still alive?

  He ran to the door; it was open. Most of the plaster had fallen from the ceiling, and the parlor was covered in white dust. No windowpanes were left—they were shattered on the floor. He stared at the barricade. It sat alone in front of the fireplace like a tomb—no movement, no sound, except the cheering men outside.

  Dr. Taylor came through the door and dropped his bag. They pulled the chairs and sofa away from the fireplace. They found Peter holding Katie Bea’s head in his lap,
smoothing her hair. Joe saw blood from Katie Bea’s wound had run down Peter’s arm and had pooled on the hearth.

  “There, Mam, Dr. Taylor is here. He has finally come, and everything will be fine now,” Peter said.

  Tears started down Dr. Taylor’s face as he knelt. “Peter, Peter.”

  Peter slowly looked at Dr. Taylor.

  “She’s gone, Son.”

  Peter, bewildered, looked down at his mother.

  “Mam.” Peter sobbed. “Tell him you’re not dead. He can fix you.”

  Dr. Taylor took hold of Peter’s bloody hand. “I’m sorry—so very sorry.”

  “But Dr. Taylor, you can save her. I know you can. You’re a doctor. You can save her.”

  Dr. Taylor began to cry. “I can’t save her—I can’t, Peter. I can’t save her any more than I could my own Hattie.”

  Peter cried, “No, Dr. Taylor! No! She’s not dead. She’s just tired. She’s exhausted. It has been a horrible day and she needs rest. She has just fainted. She will be—”

  Dr. Taylor threw his arms around Peter and wept.

  Joe ran to the porch, had to get out. A thin cloud of smoke, just a wisp, floated on the air. A few shots came from the distant north—only a little popping, and the rotten egg smell was not as strong now. More prisoners were being prodded down the street.

  Joe stepped off the porch and went out onto the street. He looked back at the house. It was battered good, but it could be repaired.

  He looked back up to Graveyard Hill. It appeared so much different from yesterday. He never would have believed the Confederates would have ever taken Graveyard Hill with its great-big guns. What makes men charge cannons?

  Poor Peter. What will it be like now with Katie Bea gone?

  He hoped Dr. Taylor would be all right. He was mighty unstrung.

  So this is what Pa is facing in Virginia.

  Joe started toward town. Maybe Theo would have the store open. That hard candy would be good now, maybe clear his throat of smoke.

  Joe turned his back on the house. He turned his back on Graveyard Hill. He turned his back on the war. There would be time to think about it later—but not now. He would wait a spell until the smoke cleared and the blood had been washed away—maybe then it wouldn’t be as real.