Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Peter held the Bible close as he thought of Joe. Joe was true to his word. It was now February, and Joe was still on the farm. Thank the Lord for that. Peter knew if Joe struck out for Virginia, he would certainly have to follow. The boy would be protected. Peter had promised. He had promised Dr. Taylor. He had promised himself.

  Peter had been awakened by nightmares since the incident in town. In the nightmares, the sword didn’t hit Joe flat across the back—it was a deadly cut instead. Peter tried to run as the soldier raised the sword. Peter tried, but he couldn’t close the distance. The sword came down like the devil’s sickle. Peter couldn’t get there in time. He screamed, but no sound came forth. His feet became lead. Joe turned, saw the sword. He looked pleadingly at Peter. Peter didn’t have time. He could not move fast enough. The blade carved a crimson swath across Joe’s middle. Joe screamed, “Why, Peter?” Peter always woke screaming. Peter stopped. It did no good to remember the dreams, no good at all. He squeezed the Bible tight and prayed for relief from the nightmares. They were God’s will, but he prayed God’s will would change.

  He ran his hands over his worn Bible. Just the feel of the leather moved him, so much power, so much love and wisdom. He could not read all of the pages in it, not because of wear, but the cavity carved in the center. He had cut a neat hole in the center, not too big, just big enough for its purpose. Only Proverbs through Daniel was sacrificed, and he could still read most of that.

  Peter looked out the loft door, no one around. He untied the blue ribbon, which bound the book, and carefully opened it to the cavity. He slowly drew out the golden necklace. It was one of the prettiest things he had ever seen. It wasn’t only the piece of jewelry, but also the memories that accompanied it.

  He remembered Dr. Taylor giving it to him the very day he was killed. He remembered Mrs. Taylor wearing it long before that. She was as much a lady as Dr. Taylor was a gentleman. She always wore it on special occasions. She even wore it when Peter was baptized. He remembered how it stood out so much in Mrs. Taylor’s picture over the fireplace.

  Peter ran his finger across it, two golden wild pigeons—passenger pigeons. They were feeding each other as doves do while courting. An eye of each bird shown with the profiles: red eyes made of rubies. The birds were enclosed in a circle of gold, studded with small diamonds. Dr. Taylor had said the passenger pigeons represented an abundance of love. Peter knew why. There were billions upon billions of wild pigeons. They were beautiful birds, sleek, swift, and majestic.

  Peter kissed the birds, knew he held in his hands an object worth a large sum of money. It was the most prized possession the Taylor family had owned, and now it was his, given to him with love—love that was more valuable than the precious jewelry itself. It was given to him because he was loved.

  Now Doctor and Mrs. Taylor were gone, waiting for him in heaven. Mam was there too with his father, and it was a great comfort to know that. However, it was so lonely on earth without them. Peter wiped the tears with his coat sleeve. Thank the Lord for Zuey, and he reckoned for Joe, too.

  “Peter!” Joe called from the ground.

  Peter dabbed at his eyes and laughed. Never was much time alone before Joe showed up. He placed the necklace back into the Bible and bound the book tight with the ribbon.

  “Peter!”

  Peter leaned from the loft. “I’m up here.”

  Joe looked up. “Nation, Peter, you are all the time up there in that old loft.”

  But you always find me, Peter thought.

  “Come on down. They’re fixing to kill hogs. Uncle Zeke said everybody’s got to help.”

  Peter took the Bible back to his room and placed it at the bottom of his carpetbag. He climbed on the bed, pulled a loose board aside on the ceiling, and slid the bag in.

  ***

  When Peter rounded the barn, Zeke and Stepto were dragging a dead hog to the pots. Peter counted three big black pots full of boiling water, and twenty people were gathered for the killing. Knives were sticking in chop blocks, ready for the work, and children were sharpening sticks to roast pieces of guts in the fire for a treat. Joe punched the dead hog.

  “Massuh Joe, stop that,” Seth said. “You is gonna spoil the meat.” Joe gave it one last punch.

  “Peter, grab hold,” Zeke said.

  Peter grabbed a leg. The men doused the hog headfirst into the scalding water. They quickly swapped ends without the hog touching the ground and stuck the hog in rear-first. The women went to work on the hog from there and began scraping the hair from the animal. They removed most of the hair, but another dousing was needed, so the men scalded the hog again. Then four men hefted the hog to the poles, hanging it from its hind legs. Joe punched the hog again.

  “Boy!” Zeke said.

  Peter knew Joe couldn’t help himself. Trouble always pecked Joe on his shoulder.

  Stepto and Peter grabbed the second hog. It was bleeding from its head where Stepto had hit it with a big hammer. Suddenly the hog started squirming and squealing. They would have stuck that live hog in boiling water. The thought turned Peter’s heart.

  “Where’s the hammer?” Zeke yelled. “Get the hammer!”

  They scrambled for the hammer, but it was lost.

  The hog squealed—almost screamed.

  Peter covered his ears. It was unbearable. It was horrible.

  The hammer could not be found, so Zeke pulled a knife from the block.

  Peter turned from the terrible scene. He prayed to the Lord for mercy.

  Peter heard a thud, then the hog was silent. There was another thud, then another, and another. He turned. Joe was over the hog swinging his tomahawk. Over and over it landed on the hog’s head. The hog had stopped moving, and everything was quiet, except the whacking of the tomahawk.

  “That’s enough,” Zeke said.

  Joe continued swinging.

  Zeke grabbed his arm. “That’s enough, Joseph.”

  Joe looked at Zeke. Joe appeared far away, like someone who has awakened from a deep sleep and doesn’t know where he is. Blood was splattered over his face like mud. He wiped the tomahawk on his pants and stuck it back into his belt. He stepped away from the hog. Everyone watched him. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. “He won’t squeal now,” Joe whispered. “Never again.”

  Joe’s face was red and flushed. Peter had never seen him like that. His eyes were wild—animal eyes. He had taken no joy in putting the hog out of its misery. No, it needed to be done, so he did it. But he did it too coolly. He didn’t kill the suffering animal as a farmer would. He killed it as a soldier would kill his enemy.

  The men dragged the hog to the pot, and the chore continued, many hogs to kill, and time was wasting.

  Joe slipped away to the house. Peter watched him go and wondered what was going through his mind. What gave him such control when it was needed? But Peter knew Joe was not made of iron. Joe stealing away to the house proved that.

  “Fetch on over here and catch a leg,” Seth said.

  Peter felt his stomach roll. Things faded to a gray, then slowly to almost white. Peter ran. He had to get away. He found himself behind the barn leaning against the wall turning his stomach out. He heaved until it hurt and nothing left.

  I’m not much of a man. How could anyone stand that? How could anyone stand the screaming? How could Joe whack away at the hog in such a manner?

  “Peter?”

  It was Zuey. Not now, he thought. Please don’t see me this way.

  She placed a light hand on his shoulder. “Peter?”

  Peter wiped his mouth, then his eyes.

  “Is you... Is you all right?”

  Peter could have crawled in a hole and died right there. He wished she would just go away.

  “Please answer me, Peter.”

  He turned to her. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Let us go to the well and fetch you some water.”

  Peter wished he could hide in the well.

  Charlie was standing at the well. “
Peter, do you feel ill?”

  “I believe he will be fine, Massuh Charlie,” Zuey said. “He juss done et something that don’t agree with his belly.”

  “Do tell, do tell,” Charlie said, cranking the bucket from the well. “Here, my boy; let me fetch you some cool water. It’s bound to make your belly feel a mite better.” Peter knew Charlie had seen the whole thing.

  Zuey dipped the dipper into the bucket and gave it to Peter. “Thank you, Massuh Charlie.”

  The cool water did help. It was soothing going down, but it did nothing for the embarrassment now that the incident was over.

  Washington ran to the well. He started squealing like a pig and laughing. He danced around Peter and was soon joined by other children, dancing and squealing.

  “Stop that!” Zuey said. “Y’all stop that right now.”

  Peter wished he could melt into the ground.

  Charlie grabbed Washington and held him over the well. The other children stopped and fell silent.

  “Well now, Wash, I do declare you don’t seem to be in such good humor now,” Charlie said. “And I reckon you other little people want to come around to the fun Mr. Washington is a having right here and now?” He smiled, and his face glowed like a red ball.

  “Mass—Mass—Massuh Charlie—I’s be good—I’s be good. I swear!” Washington said.

  “I don’t know on it, Wash. Your shines is powerful hurtful to folks.” Charlie winked at Peter and Zuey. “What do you reckon on it, Peter? Do you think young Washington here has done learned a lesson?”

  Peter felt better. Charlie had taken the attention away from him and placed it on that little bother, Washington.

  “Mr. Charlie, I declare I do believe he has,” Peter said.

  “I is—I is!”

  “Madam Zuey, what is your opinion on this particular matter?” Charlie said.

  “Massuh Charlie, I’s of the opinion we should be asking Washington,” she said.

  “I had not studied on that, Madam, but you are surely correct. He is, after all, the one in a predicament.”

  “Please, Massuh Charlie!” Washington said. His eyes were wide, looking down the well.

  “Boy, if I fetch you down, are you going to be a good little fellow?”

  “I bees a angel!”

  Zuey and Peter laughed.

  Charlie put Washington down and rubbed his head. Charlie moved to his chair under the big shade tree. The children followed him, and when he sat, they all tried to climb into his lap. He laughed. “I declare my, little people, there ain’t enough dog for the fleas.”

  Zuey took Peter’s hand. “Massuh Charlie is a good man.”

  Peter agreed with that for sure. Charlie was one of those rare men that oozed goodness. Obviously, he wasn’t a responsible man, because if he were, he would be helping with the hog slaughtering. But he was still a good man.

  “Is you feeling better?” Zuey asked. She smiled. Peter thought it the prettiest smile in the world.

  “Better.”

  She smiled bigger.

  He wished he hadn’t promised Joe he would leave with him in the spring. He believed he could stay on the farm with Zuey forever.

  “Come, Peter, walk to the house with me. I’s got to tend the babies.”

  “No, you go. I’ve something I must do.”

  “I’ll see you at dinner then.” She left for the house.

  Peter took several deep breaths, watched the children climbing around on Charlie, clinched his fists and relaxed them several times. There were more hogs to be killed and butchered, then salted. He would do his part—somehow. Another deep breath, then he went toward the butchering.

  ***

  After washing off the hog blood, Joe went to his room and closed the door, sank on the bed and stared at the blue striped paper on the wall. Helena crept into his mind like a bad dream. It was the hog butchering that carried him back there. He could see the house where Uncle Wilbur and the surgeons were tending to the wounded—the blood and the smell like hog guts.

  He wished he had not thought of Helena. Now he couldn’t get dying out of his head: Ma, Sarah, Uncle Wilbur, Katie Bea. He could see all of them dying all over again. He could see the explosions on the hill behind the house, and men flying into bits. But the worst was the dead captain in the gully. He got up from the bed before he started crying. Crying was no good. It never helped anything. Besides, what would he be crying over, hog butchering?

  He went to the window and looked down at Charlie and the little Negro children. They were having fun climbing about Charlie as if it were the best game in the world. They were so ignorant. Didn’t they know what waited for them when they were old enough? They would be in the field. They would be doing whatever the master wanted them to do. Joe would rather be dead. Joe reckoned it was all they knew. It was home to them, and life.

  Joe looked up toward the eastern horizon and thought of Virginia. Somewhere to the north and east was home, the Shenandoah Valley, mountains and clear streams and cornfields like a yellow sea. Joe prayed his pa was there, too—he had to be there. Joe was tired of Arkansas and Mississippi and its baggage. He wanted to go home and see people he knew. He wanted to see familiar sights, like the mills, and Mr. Cain’s big red barn. He wanted to see home.

  He heard someone coming up the stairs, then a knock at the door. Fanny walked in. As usual, she looked as sweet as honey.

  “Hello, Joe.” She moved to the window. “Uncle Charlie sure has a way with the children.”

  “I don’t know why they are so happy,” Joe said. “They ain’t nothing but slaves.”

  She put her tender hand on his shoulder. “Why, Joe, you know they are treated well here.”

  “But don’t you reckon they would rather be free?”

  She smiled. “Pa says they will be freed soon.”

  “You think the Yankees are going to win the war?”

  “Oh, I hope not. Pa says slavery is doomed even if the Confederacy prevails.”

  “Pshaw! You ain’t never been on one of those big plantations that has a couple of hundred niggers, have you?”

  “Joe, don’t call them that. They are Negroes.” She smiled warmly, and Joe felt embarrassed. “Yes, I have seen those big plantations.”

  “Well, you know those rich planters ain’t never going to set their nig—Negroes free.”

  “Pa believes we will see the time.”

  “I wish the Negroes were still in Africa,” Joe said. “If they weren’t here, there would be no war.”

  “But they are here, Joe, and we must take care of them.”

  Joe studied on that a minute. Take care of them? “What do you mean?”

  She pulled his kepi off and rubbed his hair down, then placed it back on. “We are a more educated people and know more things. They are a loving, but ignorant people, so we should guide them and show them the ways of the world.”

  “Why not just set them free and let them fend for themselves?”

  Fanny laughed. “Joe, you are a silly boy. You sound like Pa, but I believe you are so wrong. We must take care of them. We must guide them in the right direction in life, since they are not as intelligent as we.”

  Joe saw no point in this discussion. Darkies were a lot of trouble, but Peter was as smart as any white person that Joe knew and smarter than most.

  “Joe, the reason I came up here was to tell you Mother wants you to take some coffee to Pa. It is ever so cold outside.”

  “Tell her I will be down in a few minutes.”

  After Fanny left the room, Joe watched Charlie with the children. Past them, he saw two servants hauling firewood up to the house.

  Take care of them? Joe thought. It is cold outside, but are they offered coffee?

  Chapter 1 2

  Joe liked his job in the barn that afternoon. All he had to do was whack the salt with an ax handle. Peter had to smear it on the hog meat.

  “This salt burns,” Peter said. He waved his hands like a squirrel’s tail.

>   Joe laughed. “I told you it would find that little cut on your hand. Here let me help with the meat.”

  Joe worked the salt over the hams and shoulders while Peter found a bucket and rinsed the salt from the cut.

  Joe didn’t mind work as long as he wasn’t working in the cotton fields. That was field hand work, and if they didn’t grow it in the Shenandoah Valley, it wasn’t worth messing with.

  Joe watched Peter attack the meat again. Peter didn’t miss a spot, always took pride in his work. Joe knew Peter had always done his best at everything. He was the most dependable Negro Joe had ever seen. The more Joe thought on it, Peter was the most dependable person—black or white—he had ever known. He now worked fast and whistled some Negro song Joe had heard before, but didn’t know the name. Katie Bea had whistled it, too.

  Joe missed Katie Bea. He and Peter had something in common: they had both lost their mother. Joe could see both of them in his mind. It only—

  “Where is your mind again, Joseph?” Peter asked, dabbing the salt from the cut on his hand.

  Joe knew better than to tell him he was thinking of Katie Bea—no need to upset him, so he stretched the truth. “I’m thinking about home in the Valley.”

  “I should have reckoned on that,” Peter said. He smiled.

  “The Shenandoah Valley must be a special place.”

  Joe perked up. “It is the prettiest place on earth.”

  “Oh, yes; you’ve told me.” Peter laughed. “Helena was pretty to me.”

  “That swamp hole?” Joe grabbed another handful of salt. “The Valley beats it decidedly.”

  “Well, I can’t argue on it because I don’t remember Virginia, but I think you are cutting Helena short.”