Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Peter nodded.

  “I’ve hid my things there. I’m fixing to get my bag and stay the night there. Everyone is so concerned about Uncle Zeke they won’t miss me until tomorrow. If you are not there by first light, I’m leaving without you, and I wish you well.”

  Joe opened the door, then looked back at Peter. He had his head in his hands. Poor Peter. But it couldn’t be helped. Joe was going home.

  ***

  The hollow tree was dry, considering how wet it was out, and the candle lit it nicely. Joe stretched out and laid his head on the carpetbag. The big revolver rested close by. Now and then, an owl would scream out, and crickets and peepers sang down by the river.

  Joe thought about his pa. Was he still alive? Where was he? Why didn’t he come? He had to be alive. He just had to.

  The rain was steady, and Joe was thankful for the dryness of the tree. He would have built a fire, but everything was wet. The candle would have to do.

  It sure was lonely. He had to admit it was going to be a long trip without Peter. Peter was a good companion. He had never tried to hold it over on Joe that he was older, never tried to be boss. That thought struck Joe funny: a darky being boss. But Peter wasn’t just any ole darky. He was free. A free Negro. Joe thought about that, wondered what that would be like. It wasn’t the same as a free white man, was it?

  What were those people up north called—abol something. They wanted to free the slaves. What would a slave do if he were free anyway? Joe guessed they would all go back to Africa.

  He wondered what they lived like in Africa. Maybe they hunted lions and elephants. There are no lions here—only panthers.

  Suddenly Joe sat up. Something was wrong. The crickets and peepers had stopped singing. Maybe it is a panther outside of the tree right this very minute. Joe grabbed the revolver.

  He heard a stick pop. He cocked the gun. He felt his pulse pounding. He aimed the gun at the outside. Suddenly Peter’s face appeared.

  Joe lowered the gun and breathed a deep breath.

  Peter threw his bag in and scooted in beside him.

  Joe was relieved that he had decided to come. Joe didn’t want to bring up Zuey or the family, so he thought of something else. “Remember when we hid from the pigeons in here?”

  Peter showed a half smile that was surely forced. “Yes, Joseph, and I reckon we shall now chase the wild pigeons to the Shenandoah Valley.”

  Chapter 1 5

  The rain stopped during the night, and by sunup, Joe and Peter were near New Albany. Joe had learned a train track ran north and south through the town of Baldwyn, east of there. The plan was to catch the cars and ride them north to Tennessee. Once they made it to Tennessee, they would make a new plan. It was Joe’s plan and Peter had to see how it played out since he had nothing better.

  A slave hauling wood outside of New Albany showed them the road to Baldwyn. It was a poor one with many low places in it, and the rain of the past few days had filled all the puddles. Mud was the rule, and both boys were muddy to their knees.

  “I’m not sure, Joe, but now that I think about it, doesn’t that track go north to Corinth?” Peter asked.

  “Nation, I’m sure I don’t know.” Joe kicked his foot, slinging red mud high in the air. “It don’t matter if it goes through New York. It’s the way home, and we’re going to hop the cars.”

  “I believe I heard the Yankees hold Corinth, Mississippi.”

  “I reckon they might. I heard they have most of Tennessee, but that don’t matter none.” Joe looked at Peter. “Fire, Peter, they were in Helena and that didn’t hinder you none.”

  “They seem different now, somehow.” Peter slipped in the muck, but caught his balance.

  “Pshaw, Yankees is Yankees.”

  Peter reckoned he would never understand Joe. How could he forget what they had done to his uncle’s farm? How could he not see how they had turned his uncle from a strong and assertive man to—well—confused? Peter could not forget—never.

  Joe saw Peter staring at him. “What are you gawking at? You are always gawking.”

  Peter said nothing, just slipped again and stared straight ahead.

  “Look, Peter, if you are scared of the bad ole Yankees, when we come across ‘em, I’ll find the biggest toad in the pond and give him a sockdologer, and the rest will fall in line.” Joe laughed aloud.

  Peter tried not to laugh, but it came anyway. He knew Joe was funning, but he wouldn’t put it past him to hit the biggest one to stir the pot.

  The day heated up as they trudged on. They didn’t talk much. Both boys were dealing with their own thoughts. Peter’s mind was on Zuey. He tried not to think on it, but it was no use. He was in love with her, and he missed her already. It was going to be a long trip to Virginia, indeed. What was he doing? All he had to do was turn around and go back. It would be the sensible thing to do; it would be the sane thing to do. How could he be letting a thirteen-year-old boy lead him into God only knew what? It was foolish trekking across the country with a war flaring. It was insane.

  However, there really wasn’t any choice when it came down to it, and he knew it. He loved Zuey deeply, and he hoped she felt the same, but all that was second. He had promised to take care of the boy, and he would. Joe was going to Virginia, with or without him, so he had no choice but to go along. He had promised Katie Bea he would go to Pennsylvania, and now he was headed that direction.

  They both saw the rider coming at the same time. It was too late to hide because the rider had seen them, too. It turned out to be an old man on a ragged black mare.

  “Whoa.” He pulled along side the boys. “Where y’all going?”

  Joe answered, “We’re headed to Baldwyn to catch the cars.”

  The rider put a finger to one nostril and blew snot out of the other. He eyed Peter; asked Joe. “This here your boy?”

  Peter didn’t like the looks of this. It was usually trouble when they asked that type question right off.

  “He’s a free man,” Joe said. “He don’t belong to nobody.”

  “Um, that a fact.” It wasn’t really a question.

  “That sure is a sorry horse,” Joe said. He rubbed the horse’s neck.

  Oh no, Peter thought. Why can’t he just hold his tongue for once?

  The man smiled, and tobacco dripped from his lip. “It’s all Forrest’s men left me a while back.”

  “They didn’t think much of you, did they, mister?” Joe said.

  “Mister, how far to Baldwyn?” Peter said, trying to change the subject.

  The man looked at Peter for a short time, then spit. “I reckon ‘bout seven or eight miles. But if I’s you boys, I’d not be a going there; heard Yankees are a coming down that way. You won’t be a fetching up on the cars there no how—not a going north no ways.”

  “Why can’t we get on the cars at Baldwyn?” Joe said.

  “I done told you boy. The Yankees are up the tracks. They is at Ripley, too.”

  “I ain’t worried about no Yankees,” Joe said.

  “I am,” the man said. “Where y’all from anyhow?”

  Joe avoided the question. “We’re headed to the Shenandoah Valley.”

  “Virginia?” The man hit his leg and laughed. The horse started. The man pulled the horse’s head forward. “Well, I’m fetching up west away from the Yankees. You tell ‘em I said hi, won’t you?” The man laughed again and moved on down the road.

  Peter didn’t like the looks of things, not at all. The Yankees coming down meant fighting, but Joe would not be detoured. He was set on Baldwyn. That meant Peter was bound there.

  ***

  Close to sundown, they neared a crossroads and came upon a man leading some mules. Peter knew what that meant: he had been hiding them, and now it was getting late, so he was taking them back home.

  “Hidy,” the man said.

  He was a young red-haired man, maybe twenty or so. He had a friendly round face. Peter saw right off he was a good person; sometimes it’s easy
to tell.

  “Hi,” Joe said. “Why you toting them mules?”

  “Rumor is the Yankees are coming down from Ripley. Don’t much believe it, though. Always rumors and not half pan out.” He offered Joe his hand. “My name is Jason Wells.”

  Joe shook it. “I’m Joe, and this is Peter.”

  Jason reached for Peter’s hand. Peter was surprised, not too many white men shook his hand. Peter took it. “Glad to know you, Mr. Wells.”

  “Where you fellas headed?”

  “Baldwyn,” Joe said.

  “Y’all come from New Albany way?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter said.

  Jason smiled at Peter. “You’re not a slave, are you?”

  Before Peter could answer, Joe said, “He’s as free as we are.”

  Peter didn’t totally agree with Joe, but he left it at that.

  Jason invited them to his home, convinced them it would be better to stay there for the night and strike out for Baldwyn bright and early. Peter liked the idea, and he helped persuade Joe.

  Jason lived with his parents on a nice farm. The farm wasn’t the size of the Taylor farm, but they had a nice crop of cotton in the field, plenty of hogs and chickens about the place, too.

  The boys were invited to sleep in the barn, and that was fine with both. Jason brought them beans and potatoes. They were cold, but they were still good.

  Jason didn’t invite them into the big house. Peter knew why he wasn’t, but he didn’t know why Joe wasn’t. It didn’t seem to bother the boy, so it didn’t matter.

  Jason sat with them in the barn until well after dark. He was friendly and talkative. He had told them that he had heard the Yankees were north of there in Ripley Mississippi. He didn’t know if it were true or not—a new rumor everyday—but he did say he had seen Rebel patrols coming and going.

  “I don’t believe the Yankees will come down this back road,” Jason said. “They’ll follow the rails.” He stuffed some hay behind his back as he leaned against the barn wall. “Maybe go through New Albany again. You hear all sorts.”

  A very dark, middle-aged black man entered the barn. “Marster Jason, I’s brought you some cider to share with these here fine gentmens.”

  Jason took the jug. “Thank you, Black Bill.”

  Bill started for the door.

  “Wait a minute, Bill,” Jason said. “Won’t you join us?”

  Bill grinned big. “I sho was hoping you’d say such.”

  “Black Bill?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, yessuh, Marster. I’s Black Bill. The other Bill on the place is Yellar Bill.”

  Jason winked; Joe and Peter laughed.

  They passed the jug around quickly the first time, each one declaring it a fine cider, then they drew themselves into a circle and passed it more slowly as they talked.

  Peter enjoyed the friendly chat. They talked of better times, before the war. Peter told of his family and of Dr. Taylor. Joe spoke fondly of his own family and told how he had to get home. Jason told his story and Bill told his.

  Bill belonged to Jason’s father, but to hear him talk, he owned the farm. He had always been there on the place, so he was part of it and it was part of him.

  Peter found why he liked Jason right off. He was a preacher, rode the local circuit. Peter had wondered why he wasn’t in the army; now he knew.

  Jason told about his family, then he told Bible stories. Peter liked the way he told them, made it sound like the Bible stories happened yesterday, and left no doubt the stories were true.

  Peter got the most laughs talking about Joe and his cutups. Bill hawed so hard he choked, then they laughed at him.

  Peter had not felt so relaxed in a long time, and with total strangers, too. Good times were in short supply with the war raging.

  “Mr. Wells, what exactly have you heard on the Yankees?” Joe asked.

  So much for good times, Peter thought.

  “George Fannon sent word down that the Yankees were up the Ripley road. Don’t know if it is true, but I hid our mules this afternoon. I heard that General Forrest was at Rienzi, a piece south, and there have been patrols up this road coming and a going.”

  “Oh, them Yankees is about, sho nuff,” Bill said. He pulled on the cider jug.

  “Well now, Bill, do tell us what you know, pray,” Jason said. He smiled at Joe and Peter.

  Bill wiped his thick lips. “I tells ya, Marster Jason. And I tells you two fellars, too.” He looked from side to side to make sure no one else heard this secret information. He tried to speak softly, but his booming voice was like a bull. “We niggers knows what’s about. Marster Jason know that true on that there head.”

  Jason winked and nodded.

  “Wayne-Wayne come down from Ripley yesterday. That bees Marster Ryan’s nigger cross the ways. He say he seed a bunch a them Yankees up ‘bout Ripley. He say they’s ‘bout a million of ‘em done come down from Memphis.”

  “But Bill, you know Wayne-Wayne has been known to stretch the truth,” Jason said. “You remember last year when that Rebel patrol came through? He said he saw General Lee, himself, and we know that was a falsehood.”

  “That be true—that be true.” Bill nodded. “But I believes Wayne-Wayne be on the level this here time, Marster Jason. He described them there Yankees to me cause he know I wouldn’t believe on it no sorta ways, and he know I bees a authority on them blue bellies.”

  “Authority?” Peter asked.

  “Well, yes, Peter,” Jason said. He winked again. “Black Bill is our resident infinite store of knowledge.”

  Bill drew himself up. “That there a fact. That not to confuse me with Yellar Bill, what knowledge come some harder.”

  “Now Bill, don’t be talking down on Yellow Bill,” Jason said. “It ain’t Christian.”

  “Oh, Lawd bless you, Marster Jason. Yellar Bill got his good side and that is a go.” Bill patted Jason’s knee and turned to Peter. “You see, Peter, I knows about them Yankees cause I done been to Memphis and seed ‘em.”

  Joe laughed. “What did they look like, Black Bill?”

  “Well, they’s all got them blue suits on, juss like a bluebird. And didn’t they all talk queer, too. That sorta talk can’t answer to no kinda smart, I will fancy to add.”

  Joe nudged Peter in the side, said, “Bill, I heard they looked sort of like that. I heard they are all pretty big—bigger than our soldiers.”

  “Marster Joe, that there hits the thing ‘bout in the middle. They’s big like Goliath in the Bible.”

  Joe laughed.

  “But if them Yankees come it down this here road, they gonna catch it a-coming and a-going. That there a fact.” Bill smacked his fist in the palm of his hand.

  “Black Bill,” a soft voice came from the barn door.”

  Peter turned to see a lady, maybe in her fifties, standing inside the door, a very tidy woman, her hair in a bun.

  Bill jumped to his feet, handing Jason the jug. “Lawd sakes, Missus, I done plumb forgot I spose to come straight back.”

  The other three rose, dusting hay from their butts.

  “These are the two I was telling you about, Mother,” Jason said. He pointed to them. “This is Joe and that is Peter.”

  “Hello, boys. I hope you find the barn comfortable. It is the only room that we have for you.”

  “It’s fine, Ma’am,” Joe and Peter replied at the same time.

  “Well, good.” She turned to Bill. “You were supposed to take the cider, then return to help Mr. Wells and the girls with the lamp oil.”

  “Lawd bless you, Missus, I just done forgot. I’m headed there now, sho is.” Bill slipped from the barn like a child.

  Mrs. Wells smiled as Bill left, turned to Joe and Peter. “I hope you boys rest well.” She left when the two boys assured her the barn was comfortable enough.

  Jason left shortly after, leaving the two nestled in the hay and the dark.

  Joe was soon asleep. This left Peter alone with his thoughts and the night. Now a
nd then a mule would bray or a horse would whinny. A mockingbird on the barn roof believed it was a good time to sing. Therefore, the night wasn’t totally quiet, but they were good night sounds to Peter.

  The smells of the farm were strong after the rainy days. Peter was used to these smells: hay, manure, leather, and even wildflowers. The smells reminded him of the farm he had just left.

  The Taylors would be looking for the two boys. Lillie would be worried sick over Joe. However, they would not search far from the farm. If Joe was not close, they knew he was bound for Virginia. If the rumors of the Yankees were in the air there, too, they would stay tight at the farm and try to hide what they could from the Yankees.

  Peter wished he was there to protect Zuey and the baby, to protect them all from the Yankees. But what could he do? He could hide, as the rest should. What could any man do against an army with weapons? A man could comply or die, that was all.

  He couldn’t let Joe lead them right to the Yankees, though. They had to avoid the armies—North and South. If they were going to Virginia, they had to slip by them all. But how? How were they going to walk all the way to Virginia? And they would have to walk if they were going to avoid the armies.

  How were they going to eat? They had a little money left from the bag, but was it enough? Where would they stay at night? What would happen if one of them got hurt on the way? What would they do if they were robbed?

  Peter reached for his bag in the dark. He fumbled around in it, pulled the Bible from it, and hugged it close. He didn’t have to read the passage, knew it by 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. Soon sleep found him with his arm around his Bible.

  ***

  When Joe awoke the next morning, it was still dark. Peter was asleep, clutching his Bible. He did that a lot. Joe looked out the window and saw lights on at the house and at the little slave huts. He had heard horsemen on the road during the night and was curious. “Wake up, Peter; it’s morning.” Joe nudged him, and he sat up, rubbed his eyes.

  Soon Jason arrived at the door with some flapjacks. “Y’all have this. I’m going to take the mules to the woodlot. There have been riders during the night, and I’m afraid the Yankees may come down this road, yet.”