Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  A sudden current wheeled them around, and Peter turned to help Joe straighten the boat. They tried hard to go straight, but it was no use; the current pushed them downriver.

  Splinters flew from Peter’s paddle, followed by the report of a gun. He turned and saw the lights on the bank. There were many men now. The big man in the water was gone. They didn’t shoot again. Peter reckoned they were afraid they would hit Joe.

  Fright shot up Peter’s spine, and he stroked harder and harder. The dark trees on the east bank slowly came into view, but they were still a long way off.

  Joe was on his knees in the front of the boat pulling hard with his paddle. His blonde hair glowed in the moonlight. As slow minutes passed the lights on the west bank slowly blinked out as the men left.

  “They can’t get to us now,” Joe said. “We are halfway across.”

  Suddenly, the boat shuddered. Peter heard scratching coming from the bottom of the boat. It wheeled around hard, and the paddles hit bottom. The current drove against the boat like a train. Something wasn’t right; they appeared to have picked up speed. Peter marked a tall tree on the east side of the river. The current was screaming by, but they weren’t moving.

  “We’ve hit a sandbar right smack in the middle of the river,” Joe said. “We have to be careful, or we will get swamped.”

  The mighty current was pounding the boat. Either bank appeared miles away.

  “Let’s try to hold the bow into the current, and I will push us off,” Peter said.

  As he stepped from the boat, it jerked free from the sand. He lost his grip. The current swept his feet from under him. He rolled and tumbled in the rushing water, tried to stand, but the water slammed him back down. He lost sight of the boat. The depth of the water went from inches to feet to inches. Water filled his mouth. He gagged and choked. His pants went to his knees. He grabbed at them, but tumbled harder. He thought he heard yelling, but the river roared like a monster.

  Think, Peter, think, or you will surely drown. You can’t stand because the current is too strong. Just float—just float like a log, and when you come to deeper water, swim. He let his legs float free, and he skidded along the sand. That’s it—that’s it. He could see nothing but water as he spun and bobbed—no boat.

  His head struck something hard. The pain was instant, and he saw lights in his head. His body wheeled around and lodged against something. He felt something pulling at his shirt. He heard a voice, or was it just the rattling from the knock on the head. Hands pulled on his arm.

  “Peter!” Joe yelled. “Peter, grab hold.”

  Peter realized it was Joe and the boat. He tried to stand, but the water was suddenly deep. His pants were only on one leg now.

  “Work your way around and climb over the back, so we don’t tip over.”

  Peter made his way to the back, and with the little strength he had left, heaved himself back into the boat. He spit and coughed muddy water as he lay on his back.

  He lay there with his chest heaving, could have drowned, but The Almighty saw fit to save him. What a fix. What a fix indeed. Here he lay in the bottom of a boat, in the middle of the Mississippi River. It would only get worse from here.

  Clouds had covered the sky now. The moon still glowed behind them enough to give a ghostly light.

  Wait. There was one star shining through. It stood out in perfect contrast. It hung over the eastern bank like a beacon. Is that my guiding light? It was the only one in the whole sky. It was in the east. It had to mean something. All right then, Peter thought, all right.

  Joe started laughing. When Peter rose, he saw Joe pointing. Peter had lost his pants. They both could have died, and came close to it, but Joe was laughing.

  After he was about out of breath, Joe stopped laughing and pointed to something the boat was lodged against. “This here snag’s got us.”

  Peter examined the snag. It appeared to be a tree, half buried in the sand with four or five large limbs reaching from the water. It must have lodged there in low water, and over time was covered with sand. No matter, with God’s help, it had saved them.

  They pushed free, and the current slung them from it. They were back in deeper water. They both paddled hard, and the eastern bank crept closer and closer as the Mississippi pulled them south.

  Peter wiped sweat from his brow and thought about the man standing in the water with the glimmering object in his hand. He was a black man—a big black man. Peter had no doubt who he was.

  Peter saw Joe’s shoulders moving up and down as he paddled. He was laughing again. Peter looked at his pants wadded up in the bottom of the boat.

  Chapter 7

  The dawn crawled in slow as a turtle. The birds awoke first, like a noisy choir, but they sounded better than the annoying mosquitoes Joe had fought all night. The birds were in perfect harmony with the river, or at least that’s what Peter had said when he first awoke. They were just birds singing, and just the river rushing to Joe, but Peter always said such foolishness.

  They had camped on a sandbar behind willows and driftwood. It was no fun to Joe because they had no fire; Peter was afraid the Yankees would discover them. Joe reckoned he was right.

  Soon, up river, Helena came alive. Riverboats built steam and, smoke rose in the air like clouds.

  The two boys moved up the riverbank. After struggling around drifts and briars, they came to an old road. Joe reckoned a ferry probably landed there before the war. He was sure Peter knew the road, but he didn’t ask him about it; he was acting queer: pouting, and other times, praying, or mumbling to himself.

  Peter stopped at the road and stared across the river. He began to cry for no reason. Joe didn’t know what to say.

  Joe looked across at Helena. It was like a painting. The red glow of the dawning sun brushed the river and spilled over on the town, which sat at the base of Crowley’s Ridge like a bird in a nest. Smoke floated up lazily from two riverboats at the wharf, and tiny men, like ants, crawled around the wharf and on the boats. From here, Helena was beautiful.

  Joe thought of Curtis, still over there. He remembered Uncle Wilbur and Aunt Katie Bea; they would never leave Helena. It might have been a nice place if not for the war and too many Yankees piled in it. He did have fun there sometimes, in spite of the Yankees. Uncle Wilbur had said the place was lovely before the war, and Curtis had harped on it. However, there was a war, and the place was now overcrowded with Yankees.

  Joe looked at Peter again—poor Peter. If it weren’t for over a half mile of muddy, racing water, Joe believed Peter would go back.

  He noticed the stick over Peter’s shoulder and the wet clothes tied to it. He had to turn away when he started giggling, remembering Peter in the boat without his pants.

  Joe started down the road, and Peter soon followed. Peter could lead later, when he was finished pouting. When they turned from the river, the woods engulfed them like a vast tunnel, and the mosquitoes found them again. It was darker than by the open river, even as the sun rose. Giant oaks stretched to the sky, bigger than any oaks Joe had ever seen.

  The morning grew, and the sunlight fought its way through the canopy. Often they would see the white tail of a deer bounding or hear the whistling snort. Other unidentified animals made their noises, too.

  Peter walked closer to Joe as they moved deeper into the woods and away from the river. He scanned the woods like a soldier and kept looking back.

  “What are you looking for?” Joe asked. “There are no Yankees over here.”

  “I’m not worried about Yankees.”

  “Then what are you scared of?”

  “There are creatures in these woods.”

  “Creatures?” Joe giggled.

  “Yes, creatures.”

  “There ain’t nothing in these woods but deer and coons and the like.” Joe laughed at the thought.

  “That’s fine, Mr. Audubon, but you didn’t hear what I heard last night.”

  Joe hadn’t heard anything last night, except mosquitoes.<
br />
  “That’s right,” Peter said. “You were sound asleep, sleeping like a baby.”

  Peter was a step ahead of Joe, now. Joe saw he was surer of himself, knew something Joe didn’t. He had heard the noise and Joe hadn’t.

  “What noise?”

  Peter, still walking, turned and said, “Well, it was around midnight I reckon when I first heard it.” He turned back and continued walking.

  Joe waited for more, but Peter was silent and kept on walking. “Nation, Peter, you heard what?”

  Peter said over his shoulder, “A scream.”

  A panther, Joe thought. Smiling, he said, “You really heard a wildcat?”

  “Indeed I did.” Peter didn’t look back.

  “Was you scared?”

  “Yes, I was very afraid.”

  “What did you do?”

  Peter turned as he walked. “Well, since we couldn’t build a fire because we didn’t want to be found by the Yankees, I took a—”

  A rustle came from a downed treetop in front of the boys.

  “Putt-putt-putt.” A black animal streaked in front of Peter.

  Peter yelled and dropped his stick and carpetbag.

  The wild turkey darted up the road, running side to side trying to decide the best exit, gave up, and took to the air. A few wing beats and it disappeared through the woods.

  Joe fell to the ground and grabbed his chest as he rolled on the road.

  Peter, breathing hard, finally realized what had happened as he watched the turkey take flight; then he saw Joe lying in the road behind him. “Joe—Joe, are you all right?”

  Joe turned over and faced Peter. His face was beet red, couldn’t get his breath. After a time it finally came. The laughter came out in a wheeze at first and then a belly laugh.

  Peter laughed, too, as he helped Joe to his feet.

  Joe finally exhausted the laughing and dusted himself off.

  Peter gathered his stuff from the road and turned back toward Joe. “We had better get out of these woods before the mosquitoes eat us alive.”

  Joe picked up his bag. “Yeah, and we don’t want the ‘creatures’ to get us. ‘Putt—putt.’”

  They both laughed.

  ***

  Late morning they came to a clearing. It turned out to be a long, narrow lake, surrounded by cypress trees. The water appeared black, but upon closer inspection, it was indeed clear; Joe could plainly see the garfish swimming just under the surface of the water. He liked gar as fish went. They had long snouts with a bunch of teeth. They were the best fish to chuck a spear at.

  Peter said he remembered a bridge across the narrow lake when he was last here. No bridge now.

  “Look, Peter,” Joe said, pointing to a fishing pole lying on the opposite bank with the line still in the water. “Somebody’s was just here fishing. There is a fish on the line; I see it jerking.”

  Joe saw some sort of bird flutter up through the trees, and like a rabbit, a little Negro boy shot out from behind one of the large cypress trees and beat it up the road. He appeared to be around nine or ten, and running seemed to be his calling. That’s queer, Joe thought. “What’s on the other side of the lake?”

  “It was about four years ago when we came over here, and there was a bunch of slaves cutting trees up the road a piece. A few miles farther there is a place called Walnut Lake, I believe.”

  Joe looked across the lake and spotted a boat hidden under some brush. He stripped, except for his kepi and stepped into the cool water. It felt good in the late August heat. He slapped a mosquito on his butt, and Peter laughed. He swam over to the boat and pulled the brush from it. It was a poor job of concealment.

  As he paddled across, the boat began filling with water; Joe slid his foot over the hole. He barely made it to the other side before it sank.

  He put his clothes back on before the mosquitoes drained him. He hacked a stick with his tomahawk to plug the hole. “That should fix that wagon.”

  They paddled to the other side and placed the brush back over the boat. Peter wouldn’t have it any other way—that’s how they had found it.

  They climbed the bank from the lake. Joe stopped. “What’s that, a church?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Peter said.

  Joe shrugged his shoulders. Maybe he had water in his ears from the swim, but it sounded like a bell.

  They walked about a half mile and came to a vast field. Corn, oats, sorghum, and cotton lay in neat rows. New girdled trees still dotted the fields like scatter telegraph poles.

  There were a good many buildings up the road. When they were closer, Joe saw a large house, as large as any in Helena. He also saw cabins, barns, and a gin house. Split rail fences lined the roads and surrounded the house. The whole place appeared like magic in the middle of the wilderness. Everything was neat and orderly, nothing like anything he had seen in Yankee-occupied Arkansas. Wagons were by the barn, but Joe saw no mules or oxen. Now that he thought on it, he saw no animals at all: no horses, chickens, fowl, cows, pigs—nothing. He saw no people either.

  “Must be deserted,” Joe said as they walked the road toward the house.

  “No, they are hiding,” Peter said.

  “From who?”

  “From us.”

  “Pshaw, why would they hide from us?”

  “That boy back there at the lake must have been a sentinel,” Peter said. He looked around as if he were looking for a bear to jump out at them.

  Peter was making sense. Joe hadn’t thought about that.

  “You have that blue cap on,” Peter said. “That little boy must have thought you were a Yankee.”

  “Well, that little piccaninny. I ain’t no damn Yankee.”

  They walked toward the steps of the big house. It was a beautiful red, brick, two-story house. A huge veranda ran the length of it. There were two big chimneys, one on each side of the house. A white picket fence picked up where the split rail fence stopped—the gate was open.

  Suddenly Negroes appeared everywhere. They came from behind wagons, from around the house and barn. Joe believed if he looked up, they would be dropping from the sky. Two had guns, and they were trained on Joe and Peter. The others had pitchforks, sickles, and other things that might poke or gore a nasty hole.

  One of the men with a rifle had white hair. He said, “That plenty far nuff, Yankee.”

  “He ain’t even nothing but a boy,” another said.

  “I ain’t no Yankee,” Joe said.

  “Fetch that ax off your belt and drop it on the ground,” white head said.

  “I ain’t dropping nothing.” Joe put his hand on the tomahawk.

  Both guns were brought to shoulders and readied.

  “Don’t shoot!” Peter said. He stepped between the guns and Joe. “He’s just a boy. We came from Helena. We are just passing through on our way to New Albany.”

  “I don’t need no darky standing my fight,” Joe said.

  “Shut up, Joseph!” Peter didn’t take his eyes from the men with the guns.

  “What sort of nigger is you?” the old man asked.

  A wise-ass nigger tending my affairs, Joe thought.

  “Y’all put the guns away, Cluck,” said a voice from the veranda.

  Joe saw the prettiest woman he had ever seen. She had the longest, golden hair, and her skin was like cream. She wore a blue, velvety hoop-dress—it was perfect on her.

  “Yessum, Missus,” said the old man.

  Joe looked at the old man. Cluck. Joe knew darkies had some queer names, but that one beat the band.

  “Missus, Carl, I believes is done gone and made a mistake,” Cluck said. He done seed that Yankee cap and believed they’s Yankees. Most likely he’s asleep again, and they done got too close and scared him fo he seed who they was.”

  “I’s sorry, Missus,” Carl said from under a wagon.

  “Get outta there, boy, and gets you a bird and gets back to your post,” Cluck said.

  Carl squirted from under the wagon
and skedaddled toward the back of the house. He tripped and fell in the dirt, scrambled to his feet and high-tailed it back toward a barn.

  “Don’t you be sleeping, you hear!” Cluck called after him.

  Joe pulled his cap off and stepped in front of Peter. “Hi, Ma’am. My name is Joe Taylor, and this here is Peter.”

  “Hello, Joe. I’m Mrs. Hampton Donner.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Donner.” It was nice to meet her indeed.

  “Did I hear your servant say you had come from Helena?”

  “Oh, Peter ain’t my servant. He’s a free nigger. He belongs to nobody.”

  All of the Negroes studied Peter as if he were a new prize bull.

  “We do not say that word here,” she said. “We say darky or Negro.

  Joe noticed Cluck stick his chest out when she said this. Joe shrugged his shoulders. What ever the pretty woman liked was tops with him—nigger, Negro, whatever. “Well, anyway, we did come from Helena,” Joe said, and I reckon we ain’t never going back.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Donner said. “Do come in to my home, Joe. I would like to hear more about Helena.”

  That was fine with Joe. He was hungry, and he knew this handsome lady would surely feed him.

  “Come on Peter,” Joe said as he started up the steps.

  “Oh no,” she said. “Darkies mustn’t come through the front door. That simply will not do.” She turned to Cluck. “Cluck, do see to Peter.”

  “Yessum, Missus.” Cluck turned to Peter. “Come on, Peter; let’s see is Bessie still got some of them biscuits left over at the kitchen.” He turned to the rest of the servants. “The rest of you nig—darkies get back to work and bring them animals in from the woods.”

  ***

  Cluck took Peter around the big house to a small brick building with a large chimney. From there, Peter saw a smokehouse, and two teenaged Negro boys putting meat in it.

  “If y’all is getting that meat back in the smokehouse that soon, y’all ain’t hid it far enough from the house,” Cluck yelled. “If they’s really Yankees, they’d done fetched it all.”