Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  “Hello, Aunt Floy.”

  “Don’t you ‘Aunt Floy’ me. This here is my cabin and Massuh Zeke and Mistus say so. Ain’t no niggers or white folks pose to be in here.”

  Joe quickly pointed to the door. “They’re chucking things at me and are bound to whoop up on me if I go out that door.”

  She jerked him from the door. He covered his head for the beating with the hickory stick he knew was coming. Instead, she yelled out the door. “You little monkeys get from this here cabin fo I smack you with this here stick!”

  Joe looked around the big woman and watched the children scatter. She commanded respect, a person to be friends with.

  She held the door open. “Now, Massuh Joe, I specks you is safe.”

  “Thank you Aunt Floy; obliged.” Joe started for the door, stopped suddenly, sniffed. “Wait a minute. What is that smell? Why, I do declare; I believe it is catfish head soup.” He left Floy holding the door and started for the pot.

  Floy shut the door and followed him. “You ain’t got no call to be a sniffing around my cabin.”

  “Is that catfish head soup?”

  “What you know bout catfish head soup, anyhow?”

  “I’ve had catfish head soup bunches of times. Back home in the Shenandoah Valley we ate it all the time.” Joe knew it was a lie. He had only tried it at his friend Curtis’s house in Helena, only then after laughing at the heads floating around in the pot.

  Three large pots were over the fire, bubbling and fishy smelling, yet inviting. Floy retrieved a bowl, filled it with soup. When she placed it on the table, Joe pulled it to him and started right in.

  “Lawd bless you, boy, that going to burn yo mouth.”

  It was good. Colored women could indeed cook. She placed a big hunk of ash-pone on a tin plate and slid it to him. Joe chomped a big bite and started talking with a full mouth. “Thank you, Aunt Floy.”

  She gave him a cup of water. He spilled it down his shirt as he chugged it.

  “I ain’t never seed a nigger eat bad as you is. Slow yourself down.”

  Joe kept eating. It was good, but he would have to save room for Aunt Lillie’s supper; she was a fine cook, too. Joe sopped the bowl and declared the meal fit for a king. He knew this wouldn’t be the last time he would come here for a meal.

  He looked around the cabin. Floy ignored him as she busied herself with the cooking. The cabin was constructed of great big logs, with four windows, and air flowed perfectly through the cabin. It was early October, but Joe was surprised that it wasn’t hotter than it was with the big fire going. Shelves lined the walls covered with an assortment of cans and bottles, and all sorts of cooking implements like the big kitchen at the Donner plantation. But no fancy bowls and plates here, mostly wood, tin, and iron. Joe spotted about fifteen gallon-sized pots in a row next to the big fireplace.

  “What are those for?”

  “You sho does ask a lot of foolish questions.” She picked up one of the pots and set it on the table. “This here pot is what us folks get our supper in.”

  “I thought you got it from one of those big pots,” Joe said, examining one of the little ones.

  “Lawd, boy, you don’t seem to know nothing bout nothing.” She took the pot from Joe and placed it with the rest. “I fills these here pots up when the field hands comes in from the fields. They’s one pot fo each cabin.”

  Joe understood it now. The workers would come in from the fields and not have to cook. Aunt Floy would have it already prepared. Joe knew this was not the case on all plantations. Some places they had to cook after they came in from working all day, even if it were late at night.

  “Appears to me you’ve got the most important job on the place,” Joe said, wiping crumbs from his shirt.

  Aunt Floy almost smiled, but caught herself. “Well, I does got to feed a heap a hungry niggers fo sho.”

  “Sure you do, and if they don’t eat, they don’t work. Why, there ain’t no studying on it; you have the highest position on the place. Why, you let one of the field hands get sick and can’t pick, that ain’t nothing, but you get sick and can’t cook, the whole place would shut down tight.”

  Aunt Floy sat on the bench across the table from Joe. “Marse and Mistus do take a big store in my cooking.”

  “Sure they do, Aunt Floy. Uncle Zeke was just telling me when I got here how if it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t have a darky fit to work.” Joe hoped this little white lie wouldn’t be found out.

  Aunt Floy finally smiled. “Did Marse say that on me fo sho?”

  “Sure he did.” Joe reached across the table and patted her big paw. “Uncle Zeke appreciates you very much.”

  “I ain’t knowed it,” she said. “Seth say I was important to the place, but I ain’t believed it til white folk say so.”

  “Oh yeah, and Seth is important, too. Why, Uncle Zeke couldn’t run the place without the two of you.”

  Floy suddenly got up from the table. “I got something special for young Massuh Joe. You juss wait right there.” She went to one of the shelves and retrieved a wooden bowl. She placed another piece of ash-pone in it and poured sorghum molasses over it. She slid it to him.

  Yes, Joe knew he had won her over.

  “Now, Massuh Joe, you going to have to get. I’s got to get this here supper ready. The field hands going to be a-coming in soon.”

  When Joe walked out of the cabin, he spotted the colored children climbing around in one of the trees. They were watching him eat the sticky treat—no doubt surprised that he had come out alive and eating on a pone, too. They seemed to be under a spell, didn’t say anything, only stared.

  Joe finished the treat, got a drink from the well, and washed the sticky syrup from his hands. From there he could see the slaves picking cotton. He spotted Zeke easily; not only was he white, but the biggest man in the field. He saw Peter, too. What was he doing out there? He was a free man. Joe reckoned he was like the rest on them. He didn’t have any more brains than a field hand.

  Joe caught something out of the corner of his eye, the billy goat. They stared at each other for a long minute. Joe kicked dirt at the goat. The goat charged.

  “Whooie!” Joe yelled. “Come on you, stinking goat!” Joe struck out for the big house. The goat was quickly gaining.

  Chapter 1 0

  The cotton field spread like a white sea past the houses and barns down to the trees, which hid the Tallahatchie beyond. The Negroes harvested the bolls like machines, moving down the rows, always moving, moving. The cotton jerked and rippled like waves as black hands snatched and pulled at the plants, reaping the white bounty. Many of the women wore red calico bandanas, and the color reminded Peter of a flock of redbirds in the snow. Fill the baskets; dump the baskets into the wagon. Do it over again and again, all day—a very long day.

  Peter had never picked cotton before, and his basket filled slower than the rest, even slower than the younger pickers. His fingers were cut and scraped from the rough backs of the cotton bolls, and his back felt like needles. He had volunteered to go to the field, never thought it was that much work, but he wanted to show his worth.

  He had thanked God many times for saving him from slavery. Now he thanked him more. But even though he wasn’t a slave, he felt a bond with these people. They were his people, his ancestry, all sons and daughters of Africa.

  “Ben, get off your ass and start picking!” Zeke yelled across the field. Peter turned to see Ben rise in the cotton. Ben was a tall skinny fourteen-year-old. He was known for his shirking.

  “You done heard Marse. You best fill that basket right smart,” Seth backed Zeke. Peter knew it was no joke; Seth was respected and feared, too.

  One or the other two barked orders often to the younger pickers, seldom to the adults—they knew their job and did it.

  Seth stayed with the wagon and picked cotton close to it. When it was full, he drove it to the gin house, then came back with an empty one. He watched closely as the pickers dumped their cotton in the
wagon, knew who was picking fast and who was not.

  Zeke picked and was one of the fastest pickers in the field. He moved around the field, not going down just one row. Peter figured this way he could monitor everyone’s work. Zeke said little, not much on small talk.

  The fieldwork was not quiet—oh no. There was singing. When one song would end, someone else would start up another. Peter had heard Mam sing many of the songs. He felt close to her now. She had told him of the cotton fields, had told him of the never-ending rows. Now he understood.

  When someone would pick close to Peter, they would laugh and tease. Stepto laughed, too, but showed Peter ways to make the picking go faster and easier. Before Stepto moved on, he dumped some of his basket into Peter’s. Peter would look better at the wagon. Peter knew he had found a friend.

  The cotton wagon was at the end of Peter’s row. He dumped his basket and moved to the water bucket.

  “Peter, you is doing good, right good,” Seth said. He handed Peter the dipper gourd. “Dr. Taylor sho nuff be proud at you, boy. Sho would.”

  “Thank you, Seth. It is kind of you to say so.”

  The water was cool coming from the wooden bucket, and Peter gulped it.

  Zeke came to the wagon. “Slow down Peter. If you drink too fast, it will make you ill.”

  “Sho will,” Seth said. “Make ya head hurt, too.”

  “I’m sorry—I mean—I’ll slow down.”

  Zeke took the dipper and drank long and slow, looking over the field as he drank.

  “Marse, we is making good time, good time, sho is,” Seth said.

  Zeke lowered the dipper. “Indeed we are, Seth.” He handed the dipper to Seth. “I just hope the Yankees don’t come and take it.”

  “I don’t reckon them Yankees going to be coming this here way.”

  “We have been fortunate this far, but for how long?” Zeke said.

  Seth hurried a swallow. “Sho is—sho is. General Forrest get ‘em if they comes back down in Mississippi.”

  Zeke stared absently across the field. “Maybe so.” He turned back toward Seth with a hard look. “For the life of me I can’t find out what happened to Charlie. He should have been back here two weeks ago.”

  Peter had heard Charlie’s name mentioned often and knew he lived in the big house, but he didn’t clearly remember who he was. He barely remembered him from the past visit.

  “Now Marse, don’t be fretting over Massuh Charlie. He bees back by and by. You know he always stay too long when he go to Memphis. You knows how he is. You member bout that old widder woman up there he go see.”

  “I reckon, but he has been gone for damn near a month; we need those supplies. I know the Yankees are still buying cotton. Good thing cotton don’t spoil.”

  “Well now, Massuh Charlie bees particular. He gonna heft a right good deal when he sell that bale.”

  “Master Charlie is probably drunk and has lost the cotton,” Zeke said.

  “Marse, don’t let Mistus hear you say such truck. Lawd knows she set a lot of store on her brother.”

  Zeke kicked softly at a spoke. “I suppose you’re right, Seth. If he ran into trouble with the Yankees, we would have heard something.”

  “You can depend on that there, Marse. You see, Massuh Charlie be coming back soon in high feather, ready to take this here cotton to Memphis. Oh yessuh. He be done fetched Marse up coffee and salt and everything.”

  Zeke didn’t reply. He surveyed the fields, then studied the sky.

  “Yessuh,” Seth said to no one, as he drank from the dipper again.

  “Sure would be a fine day to go fishing,” Zeke said.

  “Sho would—sho would,” Seth said. “Floy is fixing fish head soup for us niggers this evening now that ya mentions it.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Marse should come and fetch him some of the soup.”

  “Mrs. Taylor would storm if I ate Floy’s cooking. You know that.”

  “Oh, yessuh, that a fact.” Seth grinned.

  Zeke turned to Seth. “I want you to go on in.”

  “Marse, we done settled this here. You ain’t gonna be running me in from the field.”

  “Damn it, Seth; don’t sass me.”

  “I can pick juss as good as any hand on the place.”

  Peter fumbled for his basket. He knew he was at the wrong location.

  “You can pick better.” Zeke took the dipper from Seth and placed it in the bucket. “But you are not as young as you used to be. You go on in and see if the boys got the gin ready.”

  “Marse, I knows the—”

  Zeke put his hand up. “Take Peter with you. He has done plenty today for a first-time picker.” With that he gathered his sack and headed back to the field.

  Peter knew Seth had more liberties than any other on the place, but he knew when not to push it. He had always seemed happy and content on the farm. But how content could a slave be? Peter could only guess at the answer.

  “Come on, boy; let us see is them boys got the gin in order,” Seth said. They started across the field toward the gin house. “Marse don’t know his place no how, picking cotton like a field hand.” He rubbed his gnarly hand across his white head. Frowning like a spoiled child, he looked back at Zeke. “Niggers all over these parts laughing at us Taylor niggers for such a foolish marster.”

  “I would think you would be pleased to have such a master,” Peter said.

  Trudging on, Seth turned to Peter. A smile grew on his weathered face. “Boy, I declare,” Seth laughed. “I is pleased with Marse. I specs he is the bestest marster anywhere.”

  “But you said—”

  “Peter, don’t take everything fo sho nuff. I juss wish Marse would let niggers do the nigger work and him do the white folk work.”

  Peter could not understand this thinking. It seemed to him that they should be happy to have a master working with them, instead of holding it high and mighty over them. He was beginning to see there was more than black and white on many issues.

  Seth showed Peter around the gin house. Seth was in charge of the ginning, and the men in the gin house scurried when he walked in. The gin was driven by mules to separate the seed from the cotton fiber. In another building was a large press for baling the ginned cotton.

  Peter learned that last year there had been a white man running the gin, but Mr. Taylor had forced him to leave. In fact, the room where Peter now slept had been his. When Peter asked why he was made to leave, Seth told him not to speak on it. Peter later discovered the man left before Mr. Taylor could kill him. Peter suspected he knew what bad thing the man had done. He had noticed it the first day he and Joe had arrived.

  ***

  Joe sat at the supper table beside Fanny. The more he looked at her, the prettier she looked. He believed his own sister, Sarah, would have looked like her some day. Fanny was sweet to him, and she was good to Peter, too.

  Zeke took his usual place at the head of the table. He didn’t talk much—he didn’t have to. Lillie kept everything he needed for supper at his arms’ length. Joe saw everything had an order at the table.

  Lillie busied herself back and forth from the kitchen, even as everyone else ate. She finally sat when everyone else was half-finished. She dipped food onto her plate in small orderly piles.

  “Joe, I didn’t see you much today. What did you find to do?” Lillie asked.

  “Nothing much.” Joe shoveled beans into his mouth. “I visited Aunt Floy in her cabin.”

  Everything fell silent. Everyone looked at Joe. Joe realized he had done something wrong. What? The silence stretched as he slowly drank his milk.

  Fanny broke the silence. “You really went into Aunt Floy’s cabin?”

  Joe wiped milk from his mouth, noticed all eyes still on him. Zuey appeared at the doorway. Joe tried to figure what he had done wrong. Suddenly he realized what it was. Aunt Floy had told. “I hope you are not mad, Aunt Lillie, but Aunt Floy gave me some soup.”

  “She gave you
soup?” Zuey said.

  Joe looked at her. What was going on? “Yeah,” he said slowly, “and ash-pone, too.”

  “She gave you soup and ash-pone?” Fanny said, turning to face Joe.

  “Nation, the soup had to have some bread with it. But the sorghum molasses was the best.”

  “Sorghum!” Fanny and Zuey declared at the same time.

  “Well, Joseph, it seems you have done the impossible,” Lillie said.

  “I will say so,” Zeke said. “Not many can come it around Floy.”

  “Aunt Floy is a fine cook,” Lillie said. “All the servants say just that.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, first rate. That was the best soup I ever ate.” Joe quickly realized his mistake. “But as good a cook as Aunt Floy is, she is a far stretch from you, Aunt Lillie.”

  “Why, thank you,” Lillie said, and handed him another biscuit.

  Zeke smiled, shook his head as he started back eating.

  Suddenly, someone banged on the front door. Zeke went to the door. Joe followed. It was Stepto.

  “Wagon a coming, Marse—wagon a coming!”

  “Who is it?”

  “It bees Massuh Charlie.”

  “About time.”

  Joe heard the chairs scooting away from the table.

  The wagon lumbered up the drive. All the servants turned out to watch the wagon approach. Children ran along side, some climbed aboard, and some fell off. All were laughing and in high spirits. Many shouted, “What did ya fetch us, Massuh Charlie?”

  Firmly, Lillie told Stepto to get the children away from the wagon lest they get hurt. Stepto quickly dispersed the jubilant, then disappointed children.

  The wagon finally stopped in front of the house. It was covered with a big, white canvas. The man driving wore a large Panama hat and whitish clothes—they were now dirty from the ride. He was a short, plump man. When he took his hat off to bow to the ladies, Joe saw he was gray and balding. He had a smile on his round, red face from the first, and it was still there now.

  “Hello, family,” he said as he strained to get down from the wagon.