Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Still standing on the veranda, Zeke asked, “Where have you been?” His eyes bore down on the man.

  Lillie grabbed Zeke’s arm. “Now, Zeke, there will be none of that.” She let go and walked down the steps to hug Charlie.

  “Oh, Sis, it is good to see you. I fetched the needles you wanted.” He took them from his vest pocket and handed them to her. He turned to the crowd of servants. It seemed to Joe all the Negroes had turned out and were standing around the wagon. “Stepto, Ben, fetch that cover from the wagon,” Charlie said.

  The two flipped the cover off revealing a wagon loaded with supplies: two big bags of salt, sugar, coffee, hoes, clothes, and all sorts of merchandise.

  Charlie looked at Zeke. “I fetched some bargains, I tell you. They was only allowing one sack of salt, but I come away with two, to be sure.”

  “It took you long enough,” Zeke said. “You should have all of Memphis in the wagon.”

  “Now, Zeke, don’t you be a-talking to me so. The road is not safe, not safe indeed.”

  The children gathered around him, and he rubbed a girl on her head.

  “Others have been coming and going with no problems,” Zeke said.

  “Well now, I spect so—I spect so. But Zeke, I had to get the news on the war. You know how those falsehoods are spread. Why, you remember we heard Lee had won at Gettysburg only to find out it wasn’t true. I got a passel of news—good for sure news, too. I also had to wait on some of them boats to come down from the North, and those Yankees get their merchandise first, pray. And I had to hunt high and low for everything we needed. And Zeke, you can’t just go through just any picket line. No, sir. You have to choose a particular lot. Them white Yankee boys, they search everything. Them darky soldiers, why you can come it over on them—yes, sir, indeed—and I did, too.”

  “You are here now. I reckon that is all that counts.”

  Fanny and Zuey descended the steps and both hugged Charlie at the same time.

  The servants pushed in close. They asked question after question. Charlie answered most of them.

  Lillie took Joe’s hand and led him to the wagon. The Negroes parted as she walked to Charlie. “This is Joseph. He is Josh’s boy.”

  “Well, I’ll be hanged. Last time I saw you boy, you was just a baby.” Charlie rubbed his head. “I reckon I’m your Uncle Charlie or close enough to it.”

  The servants grew loud again, asking what was brought for them.

  Charlie turned to address them. “Now, my good people, y’all go on back to your cabins. I’ll give you yours later. You know I won’t let you down. I know what tonight is.”

  Joe thought he sounded like some kind of king addressing his subjects. They were clearly disappointed, but they slowly drifted away.

  After Stepto finished bringing the supplies into the house, the white folks gathered in the parlor, while Zuey and Peter sat in the kitchen. Joe wished they could sit in the parlor, too, but he knew better than to say so. At least they were close enough to hear what was going on.

  Fanny pulled a chair next to Charlie. “Do tell me about Memphis. It has been ever so long since I have been there.”

  “Oh, child, the town is busier than a mule’s tail in July. Steamboats a-coming and a-going all the time. Plenty of everything you want there.”

  “How did the Yankees treat you?”

  “Why they’s just as friendly as home folk. They don’t seem to get the bad humor until they get out of town. That ain’t counting the pickets. They rummaged and dug all in my belongings. They’re right confounding, I tell you. Now them darky pickets, they just let me go on by with just one little peek inside.”

  “Oh, Charlie, you always were good with the colored people,” Lillie said, sitting the coffee down in front of the men. “I know it is so late for this, but it has been a stretch since we had coffee.”

  Joe remembered the coffee in his bag and felt guilty. He could have given it to Aunt Lillie, best not to mention it now.

  Zeke pulled a knife from a desk drawer next to his chair, dug and cut at his fingernails. “What news did you hear up there that kept you so long?”

  Joe inched closer. Maybe he had news from Virginia.

  “Well now, I tell you I do have some news. It seems our General Chalmers made a raid up around Collierville. He was a-confounding the Yankees hither and thither, made off with wagons and prisoners, handsomely. Yes, sir. Ole Chalmers was in high feather. Why them Yankees didn’t no more know what was about than a goose.” He squeezed Joe’s shoulder. “And y’all know what’s more than that? Ole Sherman himself saw the whole thing.”

  “No!” Fanny said, putting her hand to her mouth.

  “That’s flat! Him and his whole escort was a passing through Collierville when Chalmers was a kicking up his shines.”

  “I suspect you are going to tell us that is why it took you so long to get back,” Zeke said. He wiped the knife on his pants and placed it back in the drawer.

  Lillie gave him a hard look.

  “Indeed—indeed! That along with other unforeseen reasons.”

  Zeke got up from his chair. “I’m turning in.” He lit another candle, shook his head, and went up the stairs.

  It was eight o’clock when Charlie told his last tale of Memphis. He was tired now, so he went to his room, too. Fanny and Lillie wanted to catch up on their sewing; now they had new needles and it was Saturday night.

  Joe looked for Peter, but he wasn’t in the kitchen; neither was Zuey. He checked Peter’s room, but he wasn’t there either. Nation, where did that darky get off to?

  ***

  Zuey took Peter’s hand, and they eased out of the kitchen while the white folks were talking. They raced toward the quarters. Peter didn’t know what to expect when Zuey asked him to come with her, but the melting feeling inside urged him to go.

  The quarters were unusually quiet. Peter thought this strange. There was generally some commotion, especially on Saturday night. Mr. Taylor didn’t make them work on Sunday if they were ahead on the work. The weather had been good; the picking was ahead of the ginning and storage. There should have been singing, laughing—something, but it was nothing of the sort. Most of the cabins were dark. Peter slowed as they ran by the cabins; something was wrong.

  Zuey tugged at his hand. “Come on, goose.”

  He smiled, followed.

  They ran past the last cabin and came to a trail leading through the woods. Peter felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as they entered the darkness. Zuey giggled, pulled, ran down the dark path. It was evident she had been down the trail many times. Soon they came to a road, and Zuey hauled him down it. They went about a half mile, and she took him down another trail.

  “Why, Peter, I do believe you is scared.”

  “Not at all. Why would you even think that?”

  She said nothing, only giggled and pulled harder at his hand.

  The stars danced in and out of the treetops, and the moon was big as it rose in the east. It was orange—harvest moon, Peter had heard it called. It chased them from tree to tree, as they ran. It slowly turned yellow as it climbed.

  Zuey knew the trails well, dodging and weaving through the woods. Peter was getting tired, and he was lost, totally depending on Zuey. He felt as if they had been running for hours, though it was only around fifteen minutes.

  Up ahead, Peter saw a glow in the woods, brighter than the moon, much brighter. He thought the woods were on fire. As they got closer, he heard people—he heard singing, smelled smoke—pleasant, inviting, like a campfire.

  Suddenly, they burst out of the woods into a large opening. There were people, a hundred, maybe more, a large fire in the middle of the clearing and people gathered around it, also several smaller fires scattered around with small groups of people around them. Negroes, all Negroes, laughing and singing. There was music, banjos and tambourines. Peter had never seen anything like it.

  Zuey tugged at his hand, and he looked down at her. The orange firelight da
nced on her face. She was smiling, so beautiful. She put a tender hand behind his head, slowly pulled his face to hers, her lips to his. His legs suddenly grew weak, chest fluttered. His heart hurt for her. It was a feeling he had never known.

  A familiar voice trespassed on the special moment. “I see you fetched him here,” Stepto said. He gave Peter a mocking punch on the shoulder.

  Peter looked around, took it all in. It was a festival of some kind. Zuey hugged him around his body. Whatever it was, it was where he wanted to be.

  ***

  Joe was at the well, half way between the house and the quarters. It was quiet, too quiet. The only sounds were an owl down by the river and the squeaking windlass as he reeled up the bucket. Where was everybody? He dipped the dipper into the bucket. A frog leaped from the dipper at Joe’s face. He dropped the dipper and started. He looked around. He saw no one. The big orange moon had everything lit up like morning, and he could see the goat standing on a wagon. Stupid goat.

  Where did Peter go? Where were all the darkies? It was strange, no talking or anything coming from the quarters. Only a few cabins even had light showing. Tomorrow was Sunday, no work.

  He saw a shadow or something move at one of the cabins. He squatted behind the well. Someone climbed out the window. When the person slid to the ground, the moonlight revealed his face. It was Washington, that fuzzy head. What was he doing dropping from a window like a tomcat?

  Washington crept along the side of the cabin and peeked around the front. He looked back behind him, then darted toward a path leading into the woods and away from the quarters.

  Where was he going? Joe looked back toward the big house. The only light was coming from the parlor. Zeke was in the bed. Joe couldn’t stand not knowing what was afoot with Washington. He struck out after him. Joe was fast, and he could have caught the younger boy, but that was no good, so he stayed back a ways. Washington never looked back.

  Joe had no problem following the boy; the moon was bright. He followed him forever, and finally Joe saw a giant glow in the woods up ahead. He didn’t know what it was, but it was where Washington was going. Joe remembered being surprised at Mrs. Donner’s and again by Uncle Zeke. He wasn’t going to be surprised again. He left the trail and circled around the glow. He crawled on his belly to a big oak. It sounded like a large party or something in the clearing.

  He saw more Negroes there than he had ever seen at one time, except at the camp at Helena. Maybe they were planning a revolt like at Haiti. They might kill all of the white folks in their sleep. He should run back and tell Uncle Zeke.

  To his left he heard something, moaning. It was close. He felt his pulse rushing in his ears. He snaked over to the sound, had to see what it was, might be captured white people. He saw a black man on top of a black woman. Joe was embarrassed—he knew what they were doing. He crawled far away to another tree.

  What were all of these Negroes doing out here? Didn’t they know they would get in trouble if found out?

  He had to get closer. He crawled to a handcart and slid under it, had to be careful. He saw people sitting on stumps just a few feet away.

  A light-colored boy jumped upon a tall stump and started sawing away with a fiddle. Most turned to him. They started clapping their hands and stomping the ground with some queer dance.

  Joe spotted three hogs cooking over one of the fires. There would be trouble for sure if it was ever found out they had stolen hogs from their masters. What are these ignorant darkies thinking? Joe had always heard Negroes weren’t as smart as whites—this settled the hash.

  Two people danced right over to the cart. Joe buried down like a tick. They were jumping and stomping and laughing. They stopped when the music did. Joe heard them talking—it was Peter and Zuey.

  So Peter was in with them! You couldn’t trust any of them. Fanny was back home tending to Zuey’s baby, and Zuey here at this revolt.

  Joe thought he heard something behind him. He strained to listen. If only the darkies would hush a minute, he could hear. It was horse’s hooves. A horse was coming up the trail. Now these darkies would get it.

  What about Peter and Zuey? Well, they had it coming, didn’t they? They didn’t have any business coming out here. They should have stayed back on the place where they belonged.

  The horse came closer.

  Peter may not be such a free nigger after this. If they catch him out here with this revolt, he will be a slave sure enough.

  Joe could hear the horse plainly, clop—clop—clop.

  Damn it, Joe thought. “Peter,” he whispered.

  Clop—clop—clop.

  “Peter!”

  Clop—clop—clop.

  Peter and Zuey were standing closer to the cart. Joe reached out to grab Peter’s leg. Peter moved. Pshaw—he had heard the horse.

  Slowly, like wild ducks, they all turned toward the sound of the horse. The place fell silent, except for the crackling fires. Joe saw one stupid nigger was still turning a pig on the fire. Why didn’t they run?

  Clop—clop—clop.

  It was no use. Joe couldn’t reach Peter’s leg. If he yelled, he would be discovered, and no telling what the darkies would do to him.

  The horse finally emerged from the woods. The rider was a white man for sure, but the darkies weren’t afraid. They ran to the horse and helped the man down. They greeted him as an old friend. The fiddler started back up, as well as a banjo player on the other side of the pigs. Ben set a chair by the pig-roasting fire. The white man patted the cook on the back, then sat in the chair. The cook tore a piece of meat from a ham and gave it to the man. The man raised the meat up and everyone cheered. The white man turned to face everyone, then ate the meat. It was Uncle Charlie.

  He was in with them, Joe thought. But this made no sense, none at all.

  Washington crawled into Charlie’s lap. Charlie pulled something from his coat pocket and gave it to the boy. It must have been a sweet because Washington gobbled it down.

  The cook gave Uncle Charlie another piece of meat. He took a bite and nodded his approval. Charlie gave the rest to Washington.

  Joe didn’t know the cook. He recognized many of the people from the farm, but most he didn’t know. Where did they all come from? The people made their way to the pigs. Joe also saw people going to carts near the fire. They had food on them. Joe realized the cart he was under might have food, too. He had seen enough, so he backed out from under the cart and struck out for the path. The smell of the cooking pigs drifted to him. It smelled good. He hesitated. But he quickly decided against the temptation and left for the farm.

  The moon was high now as he left the path and hit the road. He saw horsemen coming. He slid behind a tree. There were five men. Joe felt a shot of fear for Peter. The men were paddy rollers. Joe saw at least two shotguns. This was not good, not good at all.

  He ran down his options. He could do nothing and let Peter get his own self out of this fix. Joe knew he couldn’t do that. He would have to try to beat the men back to the gathering, but that was almost impossible.

  The men stopped at the path. Joe hugged the tree like a lizard. They all looked toward the glow of the big fires. Joe could see the bright glow plainly.

  “King Charlie and his African subjects,” one said. The others laughed, and they moved past the path and continued down the road.

  Why didn’t they go check out the fire? After all, that is what paddy rollers did—keep the slaves in line. And what did that man mean by “King Charlie?”

  Joe footed it back to the farm. The goat was still standing in the wagon, and his head followed Joe’s movement. His big eyes shined like white lights under the full moon. Joe wasn’t afraid of the goat during the day, but he looked scary in the dark. All of the lights were out in the quarters, and there were no lights coming from the big house either. Joe walked under a tree and stopped to watch the goat.

  Suddenly, rustling and loud squawking came from the tree limbs overhead. Joe dashed for the house. The goat leap
ed from the wagon and went for Joe. Joe tripped and landed face first in a pile of cow shit. He turned. Chickens were flying down from the tree. The goat was closing in. Joe jumped up and pulled the tomahawk from his belt. The goat skidded to a stop. He stared with his moon-white eyes, bobbed his head a couple of times and went back to the wagon.

  Joe wiped the shit from his face and shirt, glad no one saw him running from a bunch of chickens. At least the goat knew who was boss. Joe spit straw. “Damn cow shit.” Joe put the tomahawk back and turned for the house. Instantly, he felt as if he had walked into a wall.

  “What are you doing out here?” It was Uncle Zeke.

  No wonder the goat ran.

  “Answer me, boy.”

  Joe had to come up with a story, and the story had to keep him out of trouble.

  “You’ve been down to the fires, haven’t you?”

  How did he know? “I’ve been...a...over at the—”

  “Boy, I’ll smoke you if you lie to—”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been to the fires.”

  Zeke smiled. Joe was relieved.

  Zeke looked up at the moon. “Pretty night.”

  Pretty night for what? Joe wondered. A pretty night for rounding up runaway slaves, a revolt, what?

  “Let us go to bed,” Zeke said. “We will go to church tomorrow.” Zeke turned to go to the house.

  “But what about the darkies?” Joe didn’t know why he blurted that. He didn’t want Peter and Zuey to get into trouble. But damn it, what were all of those niggers doing down there in the woods?

  Zeke turned back toward Joe, stood there for a minute looking down at him. “Did you go down there with someone or did you spy on them?”

  “Well...I...kind of...”

  Zeke looked serious. He looked toward the house, then toward the quarters suspiciously. “I reckon you can come along now that you know. I heard a few blacks were going to gather there, but I didn’t want to believe it. We need to get the guns from the house. We shall put a stop to this matter before they rise up and kill us in our beds.”

  “But it’s over a hundred of them!”