Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  He lay flat on his belly with his chin on the back of his hands, looking out the opening. He could just see the river from there. The sunlight hit the surface of the river just right from that vantage point making the river shimmer like a thousand pieces of glass. It reminded him of the streams back home in the Valley. He felt if he stared long enough he might be able to see Garner’s Mill, which was just a few miles from his home in the Valley. If he just concentrated hard, maybe it would appear. He narrowed his eyes. They were getting heavy anyway. If he just looked through his fluttering eyelashes. If he just thought real hard. If he just remem...

  ***

  Bonnie Taylor called to her son, “Joseph, you and Sarah come and eat.”

  Joe looked toward his ma. She and his pa were sitting on a blanket under a shade tree with a dinner spread out before them. It was one of many blankets, as other families were there by the stream to celebrate the Fourth of July, too.

  “I’m fixing to come in a few minutes, Ma,” Joe shouted.

  “Come now, Son,” his pa, Josh, said. “The flies are going to eat more than we do.”

  “Hang on, Sarah,” Joe said. His sister was riding piggyback while he walked in the stream.

  “I’m hanging on, Joe.”

  He felt her little fingers lock under his chin as he ran through the water.

  “Yee—ha!” she said, as Joe jumped from the water and onto the sand.

  Joe ran with the small girl on his back, her long blonde hair flying in the wind. Sometimes she was such a bother, but it was a comfort now with her on his back. Joe gently lowered her to the blanket.

  “You are so much fun, brother,” she said.

  “You have a wonderful brother,” Bonnie said, brushing Sarah’s hair from her eyes.

  Josh knuckled Joe’s head and said, “But not when he is pulling his many shines.” The knuckling never hurt.

  Bonnie pulled Joe to her and kissed him on the top of the head. “He’s wet, but he’s a good boy.” That always made Joe’s heart melt. He had the best ma in the world. He had the best family.

  Joe heard a pinging sound coming from back toward the stream.

  “Hey, the Reeds are driving spikes for horseshoes,” Josh said. Let’s hurry and we’ll join them.”

  “Don’t eat too fast,” Bonnie said. “It will make you sick.”

  She always said that, but Joe never got sick from eating too fast. He rushed. He was good at pitching horseshoes, and he wanted to get in on it.

  Mr. Reed drove the second stake: Ping—ping—ping—knock—knock—knock—

  A woodpecker woke Joe, pecking on the hollow tree. Joe looked out over the river. It was not home—it was Mississippi. No place was home, but home—the Shenandoah Valley. He buried his face into his folded hands and wept. He couldn’t help it, nor did he care. He wanted his ma—he wanted Sarah, but they were gone. They were all gone; maybe even his pa.

  He sat up after a while and wiped his eyes. I’m going home, he thought. I’m going home! Peter can stay, but I’m going home.

  He climbed out of the tree and stood by the river, wiping his eyes. Suddenly the spear bobbed to the surface and lazily drifted down the river. It slowed with the eddies and swirled with the current, but it never stopped. It moved as if on a preset course. It floated on until it disappeared like a ship on the horizon. He watched it until it was lost to the distance, then he turned for home.

  ***

  Everyone was busy with the farm work, so it was easier than he had hoped sneaking his stuff out of the house without being noticed. He eased past the last outbuildings and onto the lane. He had made it without being caught—well, almost. Washington came running from quarters—that knot-head.

  “Where is you going?” he said, as he caught up to Joe.

  “Go on back, boy, for I give you a pounding.”

  “Is you running away, Joe? Is you?” The boy grinned big.

  “Confound it, Wash, white folks don’t run away. We can leave on our own free notion. Now get back up to the house.”

  Washington skipped along behind Joe. “You is running—you is!”

  Joe wanted to pop the boy. He wanted to pop him real bad, but it would do no good. The boy would still go tell.

  “I’m just going into town, and if you are good, I will bring you back a sweet.”

  “You ain’t done it. You is leaving here.” He laughed and pointed his finger at Joe.

  Joe couldn’t stand it. He threw his bag down and jumped the boy. They rolled around in the dirt, each trying to get a punch in. Joe climbed on top and began working Washington’s head over, but soon he was jumped by Washington’s troops. Little pickaninnies came from everywhere. Joe didn’t know where they came from and how they got there so fast, but before he knew it, he had five more to battle. They knocked him off Washington and commenced to kicking and stomping. Joe, on his hands and knees, hit one of the two girls on the toes with his fist. She squealed and was out of the fight. One of the little boys bit Joe on the arm. Joe yelled and popped the boy in the nose—he cried and was out. But Washington was almost as big as Joe, and he was kneeing Joe in the ribs. Joe grabbed his leg and bit down. Washington screamed. Another one grabbed a stick and hit Joe across the butt. Joe kicked backwards and knocked him down. Two were on his back and pounding him on the head and butt. Joe was flailing like a wild horse, swinging, kicking, and gouging.

  “Get off there!” Joe heard someone say.

  He looked up and saw the wagon with Charlie in it. Peter was pulling the little bothers off him.

  “You children get on back up to the place before I put this crop on you, I’ll be bound,” Charlie said.

  The children ran toward the farm, some sobbing, and some mumbling.

  “Don’t let me hear any lip, or you will be sorry for a season,” Charlie said.

  Joe was mad at himself. Not only had he let those pickaninnies get the best of him, he had been found out.

  Peter picked up Joe’s carpetbag, said nothing, only looked at Joe with disappointed eyes.

  Joe snatched it from him. They should have left a long time ago. What right did he have to look disappointed? Joe would try it another time. And there would be another time. You bet there would.

  ***

  Joe’s free reign on the farm had come to an end. He was made to work like the rest. He didn’t mind the work, but he was surprised at the trouble he had gotten from Zeke. Why should he be blamed for wanting to go home? He had come on his on free will. Why couldn’t he leave the same way? Zeke had said Joe wasn’t going anywhere until the war was over and not to try that again. But by the time June had rolled around the “escape” was almost forgotten.

  Days in the field chopping cotton weren’t too bad. At least he could chuck dirt clods at Washington. Zeke had said if he were big enough to fight with Joe, he was big enough to work, too. But sometimes when Joe was daydreaming of home, he would catch a dirt clod to the back of the head. Wash could give as well as receive.

  Joe stayed angry at Peter. If Peter had wanted, they could have, and should have, been gone long ago. But Peter was so taken with Zuey that he thought of little else. They were together almost every moment possible. It made Joe sick. Yeah, he would leave Peter. He didn’t need him anyway.

  Joe had learned a lesson from getting caught. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. He began stashing his stuff at the hollow tree. He would take a piece from his carpetbag every chance he got and sneak it to the tree. When Lillie came into his room, the carpetbag would be there. And if he had to, he could leave without it. He would simply go to the tree first, and then move on. It was a good plan.

  ***

  Peter felt sorry for Joe, but it was good for the boy to work, and it was good that Zeke had finally laid the law down on Joe about going to Virginia. The war couldn’t last forever, and when it was over, he would carry the boy to Virginia if the boy’s father was still alive. He prayed the boy’s father was still alive.

  Peter was deeply in love with Z
uey now, but he wasn’t sure she felt the same for him. Oh, he knew she was fond of him, but he didn’t know how deep that ran.

  He enjoyed playing with the baby. He could easily see himself being a father some day. He even thought of the notion of purchasing Zuey and the baby. In Pennsylvania, they would be happy, and they would be free to do as they pleased.

  Free? Was he really a free man here in the South? Not really. He always had to have his papers with him. He had to bow to the white folks’ will. There were some good white people in the South, for sure. The Taylors were all good people, and there were many others. But he was not equal to them—not in the South, no doubt in that. When he got to the North, it would be different he prayed. Go to Pennsylvania is what he had promised Katie Bea, and that is what he intended to do once this horrible war was over. He hoped Zuey and the baby would be going, too.

  ***

  The rain had fallen on and off for the last two days. Chopping in the fields was muddy work. Zeke finally let the people rest for a day. Lillie was afraid working in the rain was going to make the people sick. Zeke allowed them to work around the cabins until the rain let up, then it would be back to the fields.

  Charlie sat on the back piazza watching the sheets of rain wave across the fields. Many of the children were sitting around him, and he laughed and picked at them as he always did. Joe sat close by sharpening his tomahawk with a big file.

  “Boy, I declare, you are going to open yourself up with that thing one of these days,” Charlie said.

  When the nosy children turned to look at Joe, Charlie thumped Washington on the head. He yowled and everyone laughed. Charlie rubbed the back of the boy’s head, grinning.

  Joe laughed. “That sounded like a hollow pumpkin.”

  “Why, fancy that. Are you a pumpkin head, Wash?” Charlie said.

  Washington grinned and the other children laughed.

  Charlie laughed, too. “I have high hopes for you, boy. Someday you are going to be the best man on the place.”

  Washington drew himself up with pride. “Does you think so, Massuh Charlie?”

  “Pshaw,” Joe said. “They’ll have to sell you down the river.”

  Washington screwed his face into a frown and started toward Joe.

  Charlie laughed and grabbed Washington’s arm. “He’s only funning you, boy.”

  Zeke walked out onto the piazza, and the atmosphere changed as surely as you would put out a lamp. He lit his pipe and stared out over the soggy fields. The smoke drifted up to the ceiling and floated. No one talked for a time, and the only sound was the pattering rain and Joe drawing the file across the tomahawk.

  Charlie broke the silence. “Well, Zeke, I do believe this rain will help the crops, to be sure.”

  Zeke took a big pull on the pipe and slowly let it out. “I hope it don’t rain too much. It’s been coming down like forty.”

  “That’s right—that’s right,” Charlie said. “A coming down full chisel is as bad as too little.” He picked one of the little girls up, placed her on his lap, and touched her nose. She giggled.

  Joe laid the file down and crammed the tomahawk into his belt. He didn’t care for Zeke’s company too much anymore. Zeke was always sour and focused on something just out of sight like a hound looking toward the woods.

  “I told Uncle Seth I would help him build some pegs for Aunt Floy’s pans.” With that, Joe jumped from the porch and ran toward the cabin before anyone could say anything.

  Seth was sitting at the table with his feet soaking in a pan, and Floy was pouring fresh hot water in when Joe popped through the door.

  “Them feet bothering you again, Uncle?” Joe dropped down on the bench beside him.

  “Massuh Joe, you just don’t knows what it bees to get old, now I tells you.”

  The cabin smelled like supper. It was always a comfort in there. Joe could hear the rain picking up. It was pinging on a tub outside.

  “Boy, does you want a ash-pone?” Floy set the bread in front of Joe before he had a chance to answer.

  “Uncle Seth,” Joe spoke with a mouthful, “do you still want to mount those pegs?”

  Seth pointed to a board on the wall. “I’s made the holes, just need some pegs.”

  “I’ve got that fashion,” Joe said. I’ve got me some sticks left from when I was making my spear. They’re behind the corncrib. I’ll get them.”

  He heard Floy say something about the rain as he shot out the door.

  He found the sticks where he had left them. He stepped under the eaves of the corncrib and shaved the stick down with his tomahawk. He was busy at it when someone stood in front of him. He looked up. It was Zeke.

  “Boy, what are you doing out in this rain?” He was angry again. “The purpose of not being in the fields is so no one would get sick in this weather. Now look at you. You’re dripping.”

  “But Uncle Zeke, I was just going to shave these pegs for Seth, and then I—”

  Zeke yanked the stick from Joe’s hands. “Go to the veranda.”

  Joe saw a look in Zeke’s eyes he had never seen before. Something had come over him. Something was wrong with him. As Joe marched to the porch, he realized this wasn’t new at all. It had been slowly growing. The signs began about a week after the Yankees had raided the farm.

  As they stepped onto the porch, Zeke told the Negro children to go to their cabins. They scattered.

  Charlie stood. “What’s the matter, Zeke? You look madder than a March hare.”

  “This boy is going to get what for.” He bent Joe over a chair. “He will be made to learn to mind.”

  “You don’t mean to whip the boy with that stick, do you, Zeke?”

  Zeke turned on Charlie. “You look here, Charlie.” He pointed a finger at him. “You have never been a help with discipline with the Negroes or anybody else, so you hold your tongue.”

  The whipping Joe could stand, but he couldn’t bear to see Zeke take it out on Charlie.

  Zeke whirled around with the stick and caught Joe across the butt. There was pain, but it wasn’t as severe as the humiliation.

  “Zeke!” Charlie said. “There is no need for that. You are not yourself, pray.” He reached for the stick.

  “You grab that stick and I’ll put it to you!”

  Charlie stepped back as if he were struck.

  Zeke whacked Joe across the butt a few more times before Joe heard Seth coming across the yard.

  “Marse—Marse! You don’t need to be a doing that to the boy.”

  Joe saw Seth standing at the bottom of the steps dripping wet and barefooted. Floy was standing behind him with an apron over her head.

  “I don’t believe my ears,” Zeke said. “Are you really talking to me in that tone, Seth?”

  “Oh, Marse, you knows the boy is high-strung. He bees like a young stud horse. He can’t help his self he got so much go.”

  “I run this farm, Seth—”

  “I knows you does, Marse, and you is a good man, but—”

  “What are you wanting to say, Seth.” Zeke patted the stick in his palm.

  “Yessuh, Marse. The boy was just getting me some pegs for my wall. Only he left out the cabin before I could tell him not to be in this here bad weather.”

  “Maybe you are the one that I should be whipping, allowing the boy to run wild.”

  Seth lowered his gray head, and rain ran from his nose. Joe thought it could have been tears.

  “I will not have Negroes telling me what to do!” Zeke pointed the stick toward Seth. “Do I have to beat you with this to have you understand, you old fool?”

  “Father!”

  Joe looked around to see Fanny and Lillie standing at the door. Zuey and Peter were behind them.

  Zeke turned around. It was as if someone had slapped him. It was as if he had been awakened. Zeke looked down at the stick, then at Seth. He dropped the stick and it rattled when it hit the floor. Joe stood. Fanny went to Zeke and put her arms around him. Fanny and Lillie led them into t
he house. Zeke suddenly looked like a lost child.

  Floy and Seth shuffled back to their cabin. Seth never raised his head. Floy put an arm around him. That was something Joe had never seen her do before.

  Charlie followed the family inside, and Peter came outside.

  Joe had never felt the pain. The whole affair was like a bad dream.

  Peter studied Joe with soft eyes.

  Joe sat on one of the chairs and looked at Seth and Floy’s cabin. “Did you see the hurt in Uncle Seth’s eyes?”

  Peter sat in the swing. “Yes.”

  “Why would Uncle Zeke be so mean?”

  “I think he is sick,” Peter said. “I think the war has taken a toll on him.”

  Joe wheeled around. “Damn the war!”

  “Joseph!”

  Joe stood. “Damn this place!”

  “Watch you mouth.”

  Joe softened. Peter was only concerned for him. “Peter, I’m leaving.”

  “Now Joe, we talked about—”

  “No! I’m leaving! We started out for Virginia, and we have stayed here too long!” Joe sighed. “I want to go home, Peter. I want to go home, and I’m going.”

  Peter looked at Joe, but said nothing.

  “You have been like family since I first met you. We left together, but I won’t hold it against you if you stay,” Joe said.

  Peter shook his head, but said nothing.

  “I know you love Zuey. So maybe it is fitting that you stay. I’m leaving tonight.”

  “Tonight!”

  “Tonight.” Joe nodded. “That’s right, and if you tell them, I will leave tomorrow; if not then, then the next day.”

  Peter stood. “Joe, let’s just wait until the war is over. You know it can’t last much longer.”

  “‘The War!’ That is all we hear. Look what the war is doing to everyone. I’m not going to let it sockdologer me any more. It could last years. I’m leaving.”

  Peter lowered his head.

  “Do you remember the hollow sycamore we hid in when the pigeons came?”