Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  “Yes—yes, we shall get help. We shall get Mr. Johnson up the road and his four boys.”

  That wouldn’t be enough white men. They needed an army.

  Joe thought of Peter again. “But what about Peter and Zuey?”

  “They should have weighed the consequences before going way down there. And Charlie should have known better, too.”

  Wait a minute. Joe knew he had not mentioned Charlie’s name, and why didn’t the paddy rollers do something? Joe smiled.

  Zeke saw the smile and laughed aloud. “I had you going, didn’t I, boy?”

  “Yes sir, you got me and good.”

  “The whites around here let the Negroes have their fun, just as long as it doesn’t get out of hand. They have a big Juba a couple times a year.”

  “But ain’t you scared your slaves will run off?”

  Zeke frowned. “My slaves? Joseph, I don’t own a slave, not one.”

  Of course, he owned slaves. They called him “Marse,” and they worked on his farm. “You are saying the darkies on this farm are not slaves?” Joe asked.

  “Yes, they are slaves, but they are not my slaves. They are Charlie’s slaves.”

  “But you—”

  “Charlie and Lillie’s father was a well-to-do man. He was a speculator. He owned most of the land around here at one time. When he died, he left everything to Charlie, including the slaves.”

  “But you run the plantation.”

  “I do. Charlie could never manage anything. In fact, Lillie and I own the farm now.”

  “Why do you not have slaves?”

  Zeke looked up at the moon again, studied it a time, then back at Joe. “No man should own another man.”

  Joe could not believe he heard it. “But you work the slaves.”

  “I work them because they are here. I work them because we have to eat, black and white. We have to live, and as long as Charlie keeps his slaves here, they shall have to work.”

  “If you are so set against slavery, why don’t you have Uncle Charlie sell them?”

  “Charlie sell his people?” Zeke laughed. “That’s like telling a king to sell his loyal subjects.” He laughed again. “No one has that kind of money.”

  Joe followed Zeke into the house. The house seemed different now. Everything was different. Uncle Zeke was more like Uncle Wilbur than Joe had realized.

  Chapter 1 1

  Blue jays scolded Joe and Peter as the mules pulled the wagon under the frosty oak tree. Joe wanted to knock them from the tree with a rock, but Peter would have none of that.

  The air was fresh and crisp. Joe loved November, his favorite month. Some people liked the flowery smell of spring, but Joe enjoyed fall smells: cotton and fallen leaves.

  “Here you go,” Peter said, handing Joe the reins. “I reckon we are far enough that Mr. Taylor won’t see.”

  Joe was glad to drive the mules again. He had gotten in trouble a few days back for driving the mules too fast. The wagon rode rough. The hard wheels found every rut and rock on the road to New Albany. Joe wondered how people kept their teeth while riding in such vehicles. He’d rather ride a horse or walk, but a man couldn’t haul much that way.

  Four Confederate soldiers rode past, gave the boys a hard stare. The rider in the back stopped, didn’t like something.

  Peter squeezed Joe’s hand. He thought Peter was going to break it.

  The man turned and saw his companions still going, so he kicked the horse and followed them.

  After the soldiers rounded a bend, Peter turned on Joe. “It’s the Yankee kepi. You are going to bring peril on us yet.”

  “Pshaw.”

  “Why do you insist on wearing it?”

  Joe reached up and pulled it down so tight his ears stuck out. “It is mine, so I reckon I can wear it.”

  “Well, as long as we are in land held by the Confederacy, why don’t you not wear it?”

  “You won’t have to worry about it much longer,” Joe said. He snapped the reins. “Get up, mules.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. I said get up there, mules.” The wagon lurched forward, and Peter grabbed hold of the seat.

  “What did you mean, Joseph?”

  Joe looked at Peter, then back at the road. “We’ve stayed in Mississippi too long.”

  Peter said nothing.

  “We were only going to stay long enough to get fitted and move on. It is time to move on.”

  Peter stared down the road and said nothing.

  “I know you’re fond of Zuey, so I aim to go on alone.”

  Peter continued to look past the mules’s ears. A rabbit sprinted across the road.

  Joe turned to Peter. “Nation, ain’t you going to say nothing.”

  Peter slowly turned in the seat. “Joe, Mr. Taylor sent a letter to your pa.”

  Joe wheeled around on the bench. “When? Did he get a reply?”

  “Seth said he sent it by Mr. Johnson when he took a load of cotton to Memphis. It was about a week after we got here. No, he hasn’t received a reply.”

  “Don’t mean nothing. Mail is just sometimey around here anyhow. You know that. He didn’t get any of the mail from Uncle Wilbur at Helena, or he would have known we were there.”

  “All that doesn’t matter. Mr. Taylor has said we aren’t leaving until he hears from your pa.”

  Joe saw it was no use talking to Peter; he wanted to stay with Zuey, so let him stay, but Joe was leaving and soon.

  Joe had turned thirteen last month, and he could fend for himself. He had handled himself just fine since Helena. After all, what could they do if he struck out at night? By the time he was missed, he would be in the wind.

  “I know what you are thinking. Listen, Joe; winter is coming on. Wait until spring, and I will go with you.”

  Joe nodded to satisfy Peter. It seemed to work. There was no need talking about it. Some people’s mind was like a steel trap, and Peter’s trap was snapped shut.

  They neared New Albany and saw the evidence of the Yankees. They had been through during the summer, burned houses and downed fences. Joe now saw how lucky the Taylor place was because it was off the main road, nestled back against the river. They rode on not saying much. What was there to say? The Yankees had said enough with the flame. Joe had been friends with some of the Yankees in Helena, but those Yankees didn’t burn Helena. Damn these Yankees. Joe wished they would carry their stealing and murdering asses back up north where they belonged.

  They arrived at their destination, the tanyard outside of town. The owner wasn’t there, so they had to wait. Joe couldn’t stand the smell of the place.

  “Peter, let me walk on into town,” Joe said.

  “You stay right here with me.”

  “Nation Peter, what could happen just going into New Albany?”

  Peter thought for a minute, then reluctantly let Joe go.

  ***

  Many of the buildings had been burned. A lot had been cleaned, but no one could deny the stinking Yankees had been there.

  Joe saw the people staring at him as he walked down the street. It was the kepi, but he didn’t care. It was his kepi—damn them. He wasn’t a Yankee—anyone could plainly see that. He hadn’t seen a man yet that scared him enough to make him remove it.

  Joe found the store Washington had told him about. Well, it really wasn’t a store building—they had been burned along with the churches. It was more like a barn with merchandise in it, but it had sweets. He had to use money from the bag, but he wasn’t bothered; he was sure he still had enough money to get him to Virginia. Joe found more items in the barn than he had expected, but the stuff was ridiculously expensive. The storekeeper evidently had made a few cotton trades in Memphis. You couldn’t get stuff anywhere else, and the Yankees wanted the fluffy white gold.

  Joe realized what the war was all about: cotton. The Yankees wanted it, and they wanted it something bad. He knew they would trade escaped slaves for it; they had done just that in
Helena. Now the people in Northern Mississippi were getting whatever they wanted from Memphis. Take a load of cotton—get a load of supplies.

  Joe prowled around in the store a bit, then stepped outside to suck on the hard candy he had bought. He sprawled out on a bench and watched the lazy town. It was a different town than he had been used to in Helena—no Yankees.

  No sooner had that thought left, when he heard the rumble of horses coming from the south. Everyone in town turned out to see. The riders were a ragged sort; no uniform matched—they were Rebels. They came like a long snake, horses kicking up dirt, men shouting, and waving caps. Joe counted over a hundred before he gave up counting. Some piled from their horses here and there, while others rode on through town. It reminded Joe of a swarm of locusts or the like. After a time the dust settled, and the solders were everywhere and in high spirits.

  The town folks descended on them with presents from bread to wine, everyone in high feather. These were their heroes—Joe could plainly see that. These were the warriors with the job of keeping the blue demons out of Mississippi. The Rebels were a tough-looking lot. If that counted for everything, they could keep out the Yankees and the Roman Legions, too.

  As Joe was beating dust from his clothes, the storekeeper came out of the barn. “I see they’s back again.”

  “Yeah, and they brought all the dirt in Mississippi.”

  The storekeeper nodded his head to something across the street. “You see that tall ‘un over yonder?”

  Joe saw an officer with his staff surrounding him. He was still on his horse surveying the town, had a leather face with a small black beard, and looked as if he wanted to bust somebody’s head in.

  “That there is General Forrest,” the storekeeper said.

  Joe stood.

  “I knowed him before the war when he’s a trading niggers. Saw a man cross him in Memphis once. Weren’t no purty sight after Forrest finished up with him. Let them Yankees come on back down and burn us now. Ole Forrest will show ‘em what’s what.”

  Forrest continued surveying the town, then his eyes locked on Joe. Katie Bea’s eyes were never more penetrating, not on her worst day.

  “Son, if I’s you, I’d be a taking that Yankee cap off,” the storekeeper whispered. Joe slid it off like melting butter off hot corn.

  Forrest smiled. He said something to one of his staff and sawed his horse around. He rode north out of town with his staff following like a long tail.

  The storekeeper laughed and followed a couple of soldiers into the barn.

  General Nathan Bedford Forrest, Joe thought. He will get the Yankees for sure. He is the best the South has. He can whip them coming and going.

  Joe absently put the kepi back on and sat back down on the bench. Dust was thick, as was the stinking horse smell, so he put the rest of the candy in his pocket. The soldiers were also everywhere, moving about like flies on a dead possum.

  Joe remembered Peter. So many Confederate soldiers would probably frighten him. Hell, he was afraid of everything. Joe couldn’t wait to tell him he had seen Forrest. He would tell him Forrest was snatching up big, young darkies to help the army. That would scare the britches off him. He would tell him he had heard Forrest was heading to the tanyard. That would be a hoot.

  Joe kicked at horse turds as he headed for the tanyard. Before Joe could leave town, he saw Peter coming in with the wagon. He just couldn’t wait. A boy couldn’t do anything without a woman or a darky getting in the way. If they would put all the darkies and all the women on a boat and send them—

  Joe was knocked to the ground. His ears hummed like a million bees were in his head. He rolled over, saw a soldier on a horse holding a sword. He hit me with the broad side of that, Joe thought. He felt for blood at the back of his head, found none.

  “If you ain’t no Yankee, you must be a Yankee lover,” the soldier said.

  The kepi—hit me because of my kepi. Joe could kill the Rebel bastard if he had a way. Joe reached for his kepi lying on the ground beside him. The soldier reared his sword back. The man flew backwards from the horse, and the sword fell to the ground close to Joe. The horse reared, stomped, and fled down the street.

  It was Peter. He had pulled the man from the horse, but now the soldier was up and had a revolver in Peter’s face.

  “You damn stinking nigger, I’ll blow you brains out!”

  Joe scurried over and raked the soldier’s legs from under him. As he went down, the revolver fired.

  Peter fell.

  Joe and the soldier scrambled to their feet. The man stuck the barrel of the revolver in Joe’s chest. The revolver popped. Joe thought he was dead. The gun had misfired, only the cap fired. Joe realized he had the sword in his own hand. He placed the point under the soldier’s chin. A drop of blood stained the tip.

  The man lowered the revolver. “Careful boy, that thing is sharp.”

  “You didn’t let that concern you when you struck me with it!” Joe felt himself spinning. Things were going in and out of focus—he was looking through a tunnel. He had never felt such rage. He felt hot. Just an inch, he thought. If he pushed just one inch, the man would die. “You killed Peter, you bastard!” Joe believed he could do it—he could push it. Rotten, stinking Rebel.

  “All right, son, let him go.” Joe heard someone talking, but the voice seemed far away. Everything seemed far away except the end of the sword. “You are the better man,” the voice said. It sounded as if the voice was in a hollow cave.

  The soldier swallowed hard, and Joe felt it through the sword.

  “Put it down, boy,” Joe saw the man talking now as he walked behind the soldier. He was an officer.

  “He killed Peter, so I aim to kill him.”

  “No,” the officer said. “Peter is still with us.”

  Slowly the tunnel melted away. The humming in his ears faded. Joe saw behind the officer, Peter on his knees holding the side of his neck. Joe felt his heart rise with relief.

  “See.” The officer pointed to Peter. “Now put down the sword.”

  Joe slowly lowered the weapon.

  The soldier jerked the revolver up to fire. The officer slapped his hand. “You’ve done enough, Swortz! Now get the hell out of here.”

  The soldier cussed and started for his horse, turned. Joe threw the sword at his feet. The soldier picked it up, kicked Peter. “I’ll kill you another time, boy.”

  Peter grimaced as the soldier went to his horse.

  Joe started for the soldier.

  “Whoa!” The officer caught Joe’s arm. “Let it go boy.”

  Joe pulled free and went to Peter. The bullet had only grazed him.

  “Son, don’t wear that Yankee cap anymore,” the officer said. “The next time someone might be killed.” He climbed on his horse. “When you get a little older, come ride with us,” he laughed. “We can use you.” He whipped the horse and galloped back into town.

  Joe helped Peter into the wagon, then ran back and retrieved his kepi. He climbed up beside Peter. Peter said nothing, only stared ahead. Joe pulled his kepi on tight. “Get up mules.”

  ***

  The ride back was quiet, just the rattling of the wagon and the clopping of the mules’ hooves. It went on that way for a couple of miles; Joe couldn’t stand it. “Nation, Peter, it wasn’t my fault. That man hit me with that sword.”

  Peter said nothing.

  “Well, I’m leaving in the morning, and you won’t have to worry about me no more.”

  Peter turned on Joe. “You are not going any place! I promised Dr. Taylor I would look after you, and I’m going to do just that, so you get that notion about Virginia out of your fool head.”

  Peter had never talked to Joe in that tone—he had talked to no one in that fashion. Joe believed he had lost his mind.

  Now Peter was sobbing. “You could have been killed back there.”

  “So! You could have been killed, too.”

  “That is right, Joseph. We both could be dead right this very mi
nute, and for what?” Peter pulled the cap from Joe’s head. “Because of this.”

  Joe pulled at the cap, but Peter wouldn’t let it go. “Give it back.”

  “No, Joseph. You need to wise up. There is a war going on—a war!”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “I am.” Peter wiped his eyes. “I’m very afraid.”

  Big baby. He’s big as a bull and scared of the war. Joe should have left him back at Helena.

  Peter touched Joe’s arm. “Look, Joe, will you just stay here through the winter? I promise we shall leave in the spring.”

  Joe studied him. He felt his heart sink. Peter couldn’t really handle things well. If he left, who would look out for Peter? After all, spring wasn’t that far away.

  “The war may be over soon. Vicksburg has fallen, and the Yankees seem to be winning everywhere. You saw what they did at Helena.”

  Joe shot back. “Uncle Charlie said the Confederates won at Chickamauga!”

  “At any rate, maybe it will be over no matter who wins. Even if it is not, we will leave for Virginia in the spring.”

  Joe studied on it. It was, indeed, getting cold in Virginia by now. It wouldn’t be good to be caught on the road when it turned cold. Besides, he had better keep an eye on Peter. He couldn’t make it on his own. “We’ll wait until spring, but no later.”

  “That is capital, Joe, capital!” Peter wiped his eyes and sniffed. “Spring will be much better. You will see. We may even get a letter, yet, from your pa.”

  Joe reached for his kepi. Peter looked at it, then looked into Joe’s eyes. Joe slowly pulled the cap from Peter’s hand.

  Peter turned suddenly. Joe looked around. Ten Rebel soldiers were coming up the road. Joe eased the kepi under his leg. Peter smiled. Joe felt better. He didn’t want to fight with Peter. Peter was too soft for that. Peter needed Joe to look after him, so he may as well be good to Peter.

  ***

  The hayloft was the warmest place Peter could find without being inside the house. It was a nice haven for reading the Bible. No one bothered him there, except for Joe—you couldn’t hide from him anywhere.

  The Bible was the most comfort in the world. Yes, Zuey was a comfort, but not the same comfort as the Lord’s book. Zuey made him fluttery inside and melted his heart, but the Bible made him soar, made him free of the world. The words within it were magic, a guide to anything and everything in life. If every man would take the Lord’s words to heart, there would be no war. There would be peace in the land and in the heart. In God is my salvation and my glory: the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God. Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him: God is a refuge for us.