Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I hear you are about town kicking soldiers in the hind side these days. Could this be true?”

  Joe smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know, yet, if he was in trouble. You had to wait and see about these things. You have to take care and not give yourself away.

  “Well, I told this informant there was no possible way this could be my Joseph no, sir, not my Joseph Taylor.”

  He was funning. He had not joked in a long time. Joe was beginning to worry—maybe Uncle Wilbur was losing his mind. It had been a hard two weeks since the battle. Things had changed so much—Katie Bea was gone.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Uncle Wilbur said. “Those soldiers won’t be bothered by you much longer. We are going to Pennsylvania.”

  Is the war over? Another thought struck Joe—if they go toward Pennsylvania, they may go through the Shenandoah Valley; at any rate, they would be going that direction. It would be good to have company on the trip.

  “I believe it will be safer up there for you two boys,” Uncle Wilbur said. He patted Joe’s leg. “I’m from Pennsylvania, but you know that. That’s where all the Taylor’s are from, including your father.”

  “Pa’s from Virginia.”

  “No, Joe, your pa is my baby brother, and we grew up in Pennsylvania—the three of us: me, Josh—your father, and the oldest, Zeke.”

  “Uncle Zeke lives in Mississippi.”

  “That’s right, but we were born and grew up in Pennsylvania.”

  Joe scratched his head.

  “All right, Joe, it’s like this: Zeke married when he was a young man to a girl from Mississippi.”

  “How did he meet a girl from Mississippi?”

  “She was visiting relatives.”

  “Oh.” Of course, everyone visits. Sometimes they stay all summer.

  “Your pa moved to Virginia when he married your ma to farm land that our family owned. He loved it so much he stayed.”

  Joe was putting the pieces together. It was beginning to make sense. Families were like creeper vines—they sprawled out in all directions, but joined to one vine.

  Then it occurred to Joe, if he had family scattered north and south, surely the soldiers fighting did, too. He remembered Captain Varner from Missouri fighting for the North, and his brother fighting for the South. This war was like a cruel game—you simply chose sides and killed each other, and for what? What could be that important?

  Uncle Wilbur rose from the sofa. “Joe, I need to get some work finished in my office.”

  Joe started for the door, hesitated, turned. “Uncle Wilbur, since all of the fighting is in the South, it will be safe in Pennsylvania, won’t it?”

  Dr. Taylor stood for a long minute and was silent. Joe thought it strange. The whole world was strange, it seemed.

  “Son, they had a big, horrible battle up there. In fact, Lee lost and was withdrawing from Pennsylvania the same day Vicksburg fell—the same day of the battle here in Helena. They fought for three days and thousands of men died. To put that in perspective, I believe less than two hundred died here.”

  Three days! Thousands! Joe found that almost impossible to believe. The battle at Helena only lasted one day, that seemed forever, and he saw the dead men sprawled out on the side of Graveyard Hill like so many felled cornstalks. They were many—too many, but they weren’t thousands.

  “In fact, the battle here in Helena hardly made the papers,” Dr. Taylor said. “Grant's victory at Vicksburg on the Fourth of July and Lee’s defeat up there were bigger news.”

  Joe remembered the dead captain in the gully. He had died in the battle here at Helena. Joe’s pa was probably in the big battle up there; after all, he was in General Lee’s army. Simple math said Joe’s pa’s chances of dying were much greater than the captain in the gully, yet that captain was food for the worms. Joe felt a shudder in his chest.

  “Do you think Pa was in that battle?”

  Dr. Taylor appeared reluctant to answer, but he did. “Yes.”

  “Was it fought in a town like Helena?”

  “It was fought around a town that I have been to many times: Gettysburg.”

  ***

  From down the street, Lucius watched the white-headed boy leave the house. The door opened again and that high-feather nigger, Peter, chased after him. They exchanged a few words, which Lucius couldn’t hear from that distance; then they walked together down the street. He let them get out of sight before he went to the door. The streets were empty except for a few soldiers about a block over. He knocked on the door.

  He had made the delivery quickly, so time was good. Take care of business here and be back at the store on time.

  Dr. Taylor opened the door. “Lucius—is there a problem? Did you make the delivery to Mrs. Baker?”

  “Yessuh, I made the delivery just fine. I just needs to talk to you, suh. It about Theo.”

  Dr. Taylor opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  Lucius stepped into the parlor. The painting of Mrs. Taylor stood out above all else. It wasn’t hanging, but was propped on the mantle, and the glass was missing, but the subject still stood out like the moon over the open Mississippi.

  “What is this about?” Dr. Taylor sat in the soft chair and motioned for Lucius to sit.

  “No, suh, I’ll stand.” Lucius looked at the floor.

  “Dr. Taylor, I saw Theo drinking whiskey or something like it at the store.”

  Dr. Taylor nodded.

  “He keep it in the storeroom, so’s you won’t see.”

  “I suspected it was so.” Dr. Taylor stood. Shaking his head, he walked to the mantle and placed his hand on it. He looked absently at the painting.

  Lucius peeked out the window—no one was on the street.

  Dr. Taylor turned around. “Lucius, you have done well. Come here; I said you would be rewarded, and I am a man of my word.”

  Lucius followed Dr. Taylor into the study. He stood at the door while Dr. Taylor wrote something in the book.

  “I knew I could trust you,” Dr. Taylor said as he pulled the key from his pocket and opened the metal box.

  Like the strike of a copperhead, Lucius grabbed Dr. Taylor around the neck from behind. Lucius’s muscle hardened as he squeezed. The doctor wheezed and gasped and clawed at the air.

  Lucius smiled, said, “Doctor, you’s been good to me, but it just no good.” He wrapped his huge hand over the doctor’s mouth, and slowly the doctor sagged in his arms. After a short time, Lucius let go and the doctor crumpled to the floor.

  He stepped over the body and didn’t look down.

  He grabbed the metal box and rifled through it. It wasn’t there! He jerked open the desk drawers, but he couldn’t find it. He knew it was there the last time he was at the house—he had seen it.

  He kicked the doctor’s body. “Where is it, Doctor? You ain’t going to keep it from me. It mine, and I aim on getting it!” He kicked the body again and pulled at his own hair.

  He had to think. Where is it? It could be anywhere in this big house. Maybe it was at the store. Maybe— A smile slowly grew on his face. Of course. The smile grew larger. The boy! Who else would know, but the boy?

  Lucius grabbed a handful of coins from the box and closed it back. He stepped over the body, turned, and kicked it again.

  He opened the door slowly. Good, no one on the street. He slipped out of the house. Must walk slowly. Can’t draw suspicion. As he rounded the corner, he felt at ease. No one had seen him go in or come out of the house.

  He thought of the little Taylor boy. He didn’t like the cocksure boy anyway. He grinned. Now, we will see what makes the white-headed boy scared.

  Chapter 6

  It was already after ten in the morning when Joe knocked on Peter’s door. It had been a week since the funeral, and Peter was spending too much time in his room.

  “Peter?” Joe put his ear to the door. “Don’t you want some breakfast?”

  Nothing.

  J
oe went back down to the kitchen. The women of Helena had been fussing over him, and now there were all kinds of food on the table. He cut a big hunk of bread and smeared it with muscadine preserves, then poured fresh milk from a bucket into a cup.

  Milking had always been Peter’s job, but since he was holed up in his room, Joe had tried his hand at it. He only had a little milk in the bucket; the cow had seen fit to kick it over twice.

  Joe munched on the bread, thought again of his plan. He had been thinking about it for days—that is, when the ladies would give him rest. Four different women had already insisted he stay with them.

  Then there was Theo trying to take over the store. But why did Joe care—he knew he was leaving soon. Besides, it was hard to think while the smell was so good coming from all of the food on the table. Joe smeared butter on a biscuit.

  It just didn’t seem right that Uncle Wilbur would die from a heart attack. He seemed too healthy, but Dr. Roy had said it was his heart. It still hurt to think on it. He had to push it from his mind, or he would think of Ma and Sarah, too.

  Butter dripped down Joe’s shirt, and he smeared at it with his arm.

  Poor Peter, he was closer to Uncle Wilbur than anyone else. He was like a darky son. That was funny: “darky” and “sun.”

  He will be right as rain by and by. Peter was a big boy, and he should be able to take care of himself. Joe had to leave, that was just the short of it. Peter would have to fend for himself. Joe had to find his pa. After all, he didn’t own Peter. He was a free man.

  Joe poured more milk from the bucket and sloshed it onto the table. It ran down the tablecloth and onto the floor.

  “Look at you,” Peter said.

  He had walked into the kitchen unnoticed. He grabbed a towel from the hanger and wiped at the spill.

  “About time you came out of that hole,” Joe said. “Want something to eat? Mrs. Kelly’s biscuits are first rate.”

  “I don’t want anything from those people.” Peter attacked the spill with the towel.

  “It’s real good.” Joe had smeared preserves around his mouth.

  Peter looked up. He was crying. Joe felt his heart get heavy.

  “Haven’t you seen how those people have treated me since Dr. Taylor died?”

  Peter went to the washbasin with the milky towel. Peter wiped his eyes, then sloshed the towel in the water. Joe thought on it, but he didn’t know what Peter was talking about.

  “You’re just too young to understand,” Peter said as he hung the towel on the peg.

  Joe took offense, but said nothing this time.

  “They fussed over you and hugged you, and offered you this and that, but they said nothing of the kind to me,” Peter said, wiping his nose. “But they did find it in their hearts to tell me, ‘Darkies ain’t supposed to be in the parlor with white folks.’ Mrs. Furley was even nice enough to fix me a plate of cornbread and beans and told me to go to my room to eat it. And I overheard them say how wrong it was that I was living in the house like I was white. None of them cared that I loved Dr. Taylor as a son loves a father.”

  Peter went to the window and stared toward the street.

  Joe nibbled at his biscuit and watched Peter. Poor Peter, he doesn’t know what he is missing. This biscuit is good.

  Peter turned from the window. “Sooner or later someone will come for you, and I will have to go to the Contraband camp.”

  Joe swallowed the last piece of biscuit. He thought about the Negro camp. He wasn’t worried about someone coming after him, because he was leaving for Virginia soon, but he hadn’t given Peter enough thought.

  “No one is coming after me,” Joe said.

  “Yes they will.”

  “They ain’t done it. I’m going home.”

  “What?” Peter sat at the table.

  “I already had it planned, and would have been gone, too, but for Uncle Wilbur dying.” Joe finished the milk with two gulps.

  “Have you forgotten the war? Virginia is where most of the fighting is.”

  “I ain’t scared. I’m leaving real soon, and I’ve got it all planned out. The way I got it figured, I will go to Uncle Zeke’s in Mississippi first, then strike out from there. And now that I think on it, you’re going with me.”

  “I don’t think so. This is ridiculous. I’m going to have to tell...”

  Joe smiled. There was no one to tell, and he saw the realization come over Peter like light from a freshly lit lamp. He would go, and it wasn’t just because he was afraid of the contraband camp. Joe knew Peter, and Peter wouldn’t let him strike out alone. Peter was a good darky that way.

  ***

  That night Peter lay awake in his bed. Mosquitoes buzzed outside the net, and an owl softly hooted somewhere in the hills behind the house. Maybe it was a spirit of one of the dead soldiers. Oh, but that was ridiculous, and not in harmony with Christianity, and he knew he should stop having those wicked thoughts. A soldier laughed somewhere in the night and a dog barked, then yelped; someone must have kicked it to shut it up.

  Peter climbed from the bed and knelt on the floor, clasped his hands together. “Oh, Father in heaven, show me the way. I am lost—I know not what to do. Please guide Joseph and me as you did Moses. Give me a bright guiding star as you did the Wise Men. Oh, Holy Father, give me the strength and the ability to make this journey. Help me to look after Joseph. Help me to protect him from the evils of the world. Give me the guidance to choose right from wrong, good from wicked, and love instead of hate. Thank you, God. I humbly ask this in the name of Jesus. Amen.”

  Peter slipped back into bed. He tossed and turned; his mind was heavy. He ran plans through his brain, but none bore fruit. There appeared to be no safe way out. There was no one to confide in; it was his responsibility alone. It was a great weight, like a heavy sack of cotton dragged down an endless row. He closed his eyes, but leaving Helena kept swimming in his head.

  He heard a sound downstairs. Mice maybe? No, that didn’t feel right. It was a shuffling sound.

  Peter eased his door open. There was a dim light downstairs. Maybe it was Joe. He opened Joe’s door; he was sound asleep in his bed, just where he should be.

  What was it? He could wake Joe, and they could climb through Joe’s window—Joe did it many times; he had a rope that he didn’t know anyone suspected, especially Peter.

  That was ridiculous. Joe probably left the lamp on in the parlor before he went to bed.

  Peter crept down the stairs. He stepped on a creaky board, froze, listened, only heard the clock. Slowly, he descended the rest of the stairs. The parlor door was ajar, and the light was definitely coming from there.

  There was a strange smell in the house. He sniffed; it was familiar: dirty clothes, no—a horse blanket or the like. He couldn’t place it, but he had smelled it before.

  The light coming from the parlor moved. Peter jerked back from the doorway. He took a few deep breaths, then peered around the opened doorway. The light was coming from a candle sitting on Dr. Taylor’s desk in the study.

  Peter slipped behind the sofa and moved closer to the study. He peeked over the sofa back. He saw movement above the fireplace. It was reflection in the new glass on Mrs. Taylor’s portrait.

  He could make out a man in the reflection. He appeared to be searching for something. It was a black man. It was Lucius!

  Lucius looked over the shelves, then looked under the desk. He pulled a knife from his boot and pried open the desk drawer. He fumbled through its contents, then pulled out Dr. Taylor’s lockbox. “There it is, maybe the boy put it back,” he whispered loudly. He pried it open with his knife.

  What could he be looking for? Why had he come in the middle of the night, and how did he know about the box? This was not good—not good at all.

  Peter knew it was time to get out of the house. If this man was brave enough to come in the night and sneak into the house, no telling what he was capable of. First, he had to get Joe. They could go out through the window.

&nb
sp; Peter crawled behind the sofa. He knocked something over. It was Joe’s spear. Peter froze.

  He listened for footsteps, but could hear nothing for the blood rushing through his ears and his own heavy breathing. Sweat dropped down on his hands as he squatted closer to the floor.

  He strained to hear. The clock on the wall sounded like a hammer pounding with each tick. That’s all he heard—no owls, no dogs.

  “Oh Lord, please give me the strength. Please show me what to do. It’s not just for me, but for Joseph, too. Please let that man leave our home. Please don’t let him harm the boy. Oh sweet Jesus, please. Amen.”

  Peter inched up from the back of the sofa after a long wait. The candle flickered. The outside door was open. Lucius had fled. He must have been scared when he heard the spear fall. Peter scrambled to shut the door, then locked it. He was probably more frightened than I was, Peter thought.

  Peter would make sure the rest of the house was locked. Tomorrow he would try to figure out why Lucius was in the house. He and Joe would visit the colonel in the morning. But what did it matter? They would be leaving soon, anyway.

  He went into the study to blow out the candle. He should just let it burn. What did he have to lose if the house burned to the ground? Someone else would get the house soon—soldiers probably. If they didn’t live in it, they would tear it down for the—

  Something slammed into him. His neck felt like fire, as it was being twisted. He felt something sharp under his chin.

  “Don’t you squeal or I’ll cut you like a pig,” Lucius hissed. He tightened his grip and pressed the knife to Peter’s chin.

  Peter knew the knife was there, but he was too afraid to feel the pain. He was strong, but this man was iron. Lucius’s stinking breath was heavy like rotten meat, and now Peter knew where the horse blanket smell had come from.

  “Boy, you is going to tell me what I needs to know,” Lucius said. “I know you is a smart nigger. I’s going to let this here knife down a bit, but don’t you figure I can’t strike fast.”

  Lucius lowered the knife and moved around to the front of Peter, the knife only inches from Peter’s face.