Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  It was an old man. He had been shot several times, once in the arm, once in the side, and once in the back.

  “Reckon he’s going to die, Peter?”

  Peter didn’t answer, looked the man over. It appeared the bleeding had stopped and the wounds were beginning to clot.

  “Mister, can you hear me?” Peter said.

  The man slowly opened his eyes.

  “He’s alive,” Joe said.

  Very softly, the man whispered, “Help me home.”

  “Where do you live?” Peter asked.

  “Follow the...” the man said, but then had to rest.

  “Take your time,” Peter said. He turned to Joe. “Bring the water from the mule.”

  Joe ran for the water.

  The man whispered, “Follow the road to the left, and go to the end of it.” The man passed out.

  The boys loaded the man on the mule. As they started down the road, he fell off and hit the ground like a sack of corn.

  The boys rushed to help him.

  The man moaned, “Are you’uns trying to help me or kill me?”

  They loaded him back on, then tied him on like a parcel.

  The road wasn’t much of a road, more like a pig trail. It cut between two big hills. They traveled for about a mile down the narrow trail before it opened up to a small farm. Everything was made of logs or stone: barn, corncrib, sheds, and the cabin. Everything was old and had fallen into disrepair. Weeds grew high among the split-rail fences. A graying black man came from the cabin.

  “Oh, my Lawd, Massuh Albert,” the black man said. He hobbled to the mule. “Has he done gone up?”

  “No, but he’s hurt pretty bad,” Peter said.

  “If he ain’t dead, why is y’all got him tied to that mule like a dead deer?”

  “We didn’t want—” Peter said.

  “Shush up that jabbering and help me get him down from there and into the cabin.”

  Peter looked at Joe; Joe shrugged.

  The inside was well kept, Peter noticed, but he could tell there wasn’t a woman in the house. It didn’t have a woman’s touch. It was clean, but not cozy.

  The man examined the wounds and declared all of the bullets had passed clean through. He put bandages on them and made the boys stand clear. Peter saw the work was hard for the black man; his hands were gnarled and twisted with arthritis.

  “Where did y’all find him?”

  Joe answered before Peter could speak. “He’s beside the road a few miles back.”

  “I reckon y’all ain’t seed no horse.”

  “There was no horse,” Peter said.

  “Fetch me some water, Gus,” Albert whispered.

  “Just you hold right there, Massuh Albert. I fetch it right off.” Gus scrambled for the pitcher. He raised Albert’s head with his crippled hand, but he was shaking too much to hold the cup with the other.

  “Here, let me help,” Peter said, taking the cup from Gus.

  After he finished with the water, the old man opened his eyes and looked around as if to get his bearing. Peter could see it slowly coming back to the man. His thick gray eyebrows looked like gray caterpillars, and they slowly rose and fell as he became more conscious and looked about the room. It looked to Peter as if they would crawl from his face.

  Gus moved Peter from the side of the bed and moved close. “Massuh, is you gonna be all right?”

  The thick eyebrows drew down into one long caterpillar. “Hell, Gus, how the hell do I know?” He tried to sit up, but quickly thought better of it as the pain hit. “Dumb darky, always asking fool questions. Can’t you see with those damn bloodshot eyes of yourn that I done been shot?”

  Gus folded his arms. “Yessum, I does see that. Yessum, I sho does. And you can’t specks nobody to take the blame but yourself. You is too thick-headed.”

  “Go on, you damn ignorant darky, before I get up and flog you.”

  “Oh, I’s a going.” Gus headed for a back room. “I was going to leave this here farm, but now I’s got to wait til you is healed up some. I reckon you done gone and got shot so I would be bound to stay.” Gus went to the back room.

  Joe turned to Peter. “Strange.”

  Peter nodded.

  “I reckon we better get going,” Joe said.

  Gus came from the room. “No, you ain’t! You two is going to let me fix you something to eat.” Before they could answer, he went back into the room.

  “Boys, I want to thank you’uns for fetching me home,” Albert said.

  “What happened to you?” Joe asked. Did the Yankees shoot you?

  Albert stared at the ceiling for a long minute taking deep breaths before he answered. “Damn Lincolnites shot me, bunch of damn cowards.”

  “What are Lincolnites?” Joe asked. He sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Tories, Yankee lovers,” Albert said. “This here country is crawling with them. Hell, they’d shoot their own momma if they thought she was sesech.”

  “Where did they come from?” Joe asked.

  “Hell, boy!” Albert coughed and spit into the water cup. “You don’t know nothing do you? They’s born here. They’s my neighbors. Until this war, they’s my friends—some of ‘em.”

  Peter saw Albert was getting upset. He squeezed Joe’s shoulder. “I think we will go out and check on the mule.”

  “Y’all ain’t a leaving til y’all done et!” Gus called from the back.”

  “We’ll be right outside,” Peter said as they went out the door.

  Joe led the mule to a patch of weeds by the fence to graze.

  Peter looked over the place. The little farm was nestled in a cove. A small stream ran close to the cabin, only a trickle flowing through it now, but it formed a pretty pool before it moved on down the cove. Small fields of wheat and corn were overgrown head-high with weeds. A garden was the only thing that seemed to have been tended lately, and it was very small.

  Joe disappeared into the barn for a few minutes, then popped out. Next, he went into one of the outbuildings. Peter shook his head at the boy; he just could not be still. After Joe was satisfied with the shed, he went back to Peter.

  “How do you reckon they live?” Joe said. “Everything is falling down around here.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  They heard a crash from inside the cabin. They found Albert trying to get out of the bed.

  “No, you stay there,” Peter said.

  “Well, check on that damn darky,” Albert said, pointing to the fireplace.

  Gus was holding his hand and staring at a kettle he had spilt on the hearth. Big tears were trailing down his dark cheeks.

  “Are you hurt?” Peter asked.

  Joe picked up the kettle and raked the food into it.

  Gus went back to the little room. Peter followed him in. It was a bedroom and pantry combined. There were pans, kettles, pots, and utensils hanging from the wall. There was a small bed, and Peter saw cornhusks protruding from the mattress. Gus sat on the mattress and placed his crippled hands between his legs.

  “What are you doing, you old fool?” Albert called from the main room.

  Joe appeared at the door.

  “That was the last of the beans, and I just wasted it,” Gus said slowly, looking at Peter. “We is going to starve for long. I’s too cripple, and he too old.”

  Peter knew Gus was too old, too.

  Joe sat on the bed beside Gus. “Does your master not have family?”

  “His boy was killed in the army. He had two more servants and they ran away with the Yankees.”

  Peter looked around the room, found it hard to believe Albert could afford to buy slaves. Gus looked at Peter, grew a faint smile.

  “He won us in a card game down in Chattanooga ‘bout twenty-five years ago.”

  “Are there no friends?” Peter asked.

  “Some; they moved over into North Carolina when the Yankees come. Some is Lincolnites now, and the rest is looking out for they own skin. Times is
hard. Massuh don’t make friends none too good.”

  “What the hell you’uns a-doing in there, holding a town meeting?” Albert said, then coughed.

  “What about the little garden?” Joe asked.

  “Not much left to it, now. We had a pair of oxen, but they done wondered into the hills, and so is our hogs. We both too old to do nothing ‘bout it. Now Massuh done gone and lost our horse. It too bad. He had went to Knoxville to sell some old jewelry that the late missus had, but I spects that gone with the horse.”

  “Gus, you go on ahead and get that pot ready, and I’ll get something from the garden to cook,” Joe said. He jumped from the bed and left the room.

  “Are you a Christian, Gus?” Peter asked, placing a hand on Gus’s crippled hand.

  Gus looked into Peter’s eyes. “I is for sho.”

  “Well, pray hard and God will provide. The Bible says, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you; for every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.’”

  “You and your young massuh sho is good people.”

  Peter walked to the door. “Thank you for the compliment, but Joe is not my master. I’m a free man.” Gus’s eyes widened. Peter smiled and left the room.

  Peter found Joe scrapping what few beans were left in the ragged garden. Peter searched for the right words to convince Joe that they needed to stay a few days to help these old men get settled. Joe saw Peter, pointed to the garden, and shook his head. “Ain’t much of a garden, is it?” Joe said.

  “Not much of a farm.”

  Joe handed the basket of beans to Peter. “I think we should kick around here for a few days, see if we can help these old men, maybe get them settled a little so they can make it on their own.”

  There was always a new facet to the boy to be discovered.

  ***

  Joe wandered about the farm while Peter worked around the cabin. Joe looked for things that could be used by the old men, things they could eat, or things to make life a little easier.

  He followed the spring to the springhouse at the edge of a big hill. It was a stone building covered with moss and vines, shaded all the time by two big chestnut trees. Inside, it was cool as a cave. The spring sprouted from the side of the hill and ran down the far edge of the floor. Little minnows darted about in the stream, and bats clung upside-down from the rotting, wood ceiling. Joe found dusty shelves along the walls with jars that once held food, but now the contents were just a greenish-brown mush.

  Joe spotted a rope behind the jars, could be handy if he found one of the hogs or one of the steers later. He pulled the rope from the rotten shelf. It wrapped around his arm. Joe flung his arm—the rope grew tighter. He ran out of the dark springhouse yelling and flapping his arm like a crippled bird. In the sunlight, he saw it was a long, black, chicken snake. He grabbed it behind the head and pulled, but it only squeezed tighter. He plunged his arm with the snake under the water. The stream was so shallow the snake raised his head from under the water. He grabbed for the head again. It bit him. Joe yelled. He yanked the tomahawk from his belt. Joe caught himself just before he started whacking; the snake was only protecting himself. The snake was a benefit, because it ate rats and mice, a good snake to have around the farm if it was kept out of the chicken house. He laid the tomahawk down, grabbed the snake behind the head, and held it under the water. Slowly the creature uncoiled. Joe raised his arm out of the water and tossed the snake to the ground. The snake seemed dazed, but slowly slithered back to the springhouse. Joe examined his arm: red, but fine. He picked up his tomahawk and breathed relief, better be a little more careful—that could have been a copperhead, and things would have been a lot different.

  The small wheat field behind the fence, which had grown wild, seemed to have enough wheat to salvage, and blackberries grew along the fence. He found a little volunteer corn, too, enough to harvest. There was more to eat on the farm then first appeared, and he found where hogs had been eating some of the corn.

  Behind the overgrown corn patch, he found another little stream. He followed it toward one of the big hills. Maybe he would find a hog.

  There were different tracks in the mud: deer, coon, possum, hog, and even the steer’s tracks. It was a highway from the big hills to the farm.

  As Joe climbed the hill, the mud played out and the stream had a rock bottom, so there were no tracks to follow. That didn’t matter; he knew he would find something. He followed the rocky stream higher. He had seen a bald knob at the top, and if he could get there, he could survey the entire farm. He picked up a stick to knock the spider webs from his path. It was hot going, and the cool stream was refreshing. It ended at a spring well before he reached the top of the small mountain, but he went on to the knob. He could see even farther than he had expected.

  The farm below resembled a toy farm. The farm was in a cove, surrounded by small mountains, and he could see its layout: the springhouse nestled into the side of the hill, corncrib, log cabin, barn, the road they had come in on—it snaked though the valley. It all looked like a map. He could even see the mule, no bigger than an ant.

  The mule wasn’t all that he saw, saw both steers standing by the overgrown corn. He must have walked right by them. He even saw two pigs walking the road. He would get Peter and they would catch them. The sooner they caught the animals, the sooner they could help the two old men and the sooner they could be on their way.

  A buzzard circled slowly overhead, drifting along like a lazy kite. Warblers held a chorus in the dark woods, and some little birds came close into the opening to scold Joe. Every now and then a squirrel would bark somewhere deep in the forest. He could smell the woodsy smell, too. It was a comfortable feeling up there. It reminded him of Massanutten Mountain back home above the Shenandoah Valley.

  He moved to the shade of a large rock, would rest there a few minutes, then make his way back down to the farm. He leaned his back to the rock and his eyes quickly became heavy. He was soon dreaming of the Shenandoah Valley, playing in the millstream with Sarah.

  ***

  He awoke with a start as a hawk screamed overhead. At first, he didn’t remember where he was. He felt something crawling on his neck. He grabbed it. It was cold and scaly. He chucked it, just a lizard—harmless. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Looking down at the valley, he quickly remembered the day’s events, saw the mule. But wait! There was more than one. No, there were horses, too—ten or twelve of them.

  There were men prowling around the dooryard. They could have been Yankees, but it was too far to be sure. Joe sensed they were up to no good. He just knew it. Why would they be crawling all about the place like rats if they were friends?

  Joe placed his hand on the tomahawk. But what good would that be? He needed the revolver, and it was on the mule. Everything they owned was on the mule. Damn!

  Joe ran down the mountain, sliding and skidding. He followed the stream back by the corn, snuck through the corn until he came to the overgrown fence, crawled beside it, closer and closer to the cabin.

  He peeked through the split-rail fence. They were not Yankees, but worse—bushwhackers. They had enough blue on that Joe assumed they were from the North, but he needed to get closer to see what was going on. He slithered through the weeds next to the fence, saw a couple coming out of the barn. Suddenly there was an explosion in front of his face. He felt his heart stop. A covey of quail! He relaxed, remembered the men. They were pointing to the quail, then they started his way. He backed out fast, keeping low. He crawled for the corn as fast as a racer snake.

  The men got closer. “Something scared them quails,” one of them said. One climbed on the fence, had a rifle in his hand. Joe lay flat as a fawn, felt his back rise every time he took a breath. He prayed they wouldn’t see it.

  “There it is!” the man on the fence yelled.

  Joe squeezed his eyes shut.

  The rifle rang out. Joe jerked, t
hen breathed relief. He wasn’t shot.

  A man yelled from the cabin, “What is it?”

  The man leaped from the fence, and they headed back to the cabin. “Weren’t nothing.”

  “Well, damn it, don’t be a wasting leads!”

  Joe took several deep breaths, then crawled back to the fence. The man had shot a possum. It lay there dead and grinning. Joe looked through the fence again and saw smoke coming from the barn and sheds. The men were on their horses, and one was pulling the mule.

  “You ain’t gonna take that sorry beast, are you, Brown?” the leader said.

  Brown took another look at the mule and threw the rope to the ground.

  “Heah!” the leader spurred his horse and they thundered toward the pass and out of the small cove.

  Peter was fighting at the flames of the barn when Joe ran to the yard. But it was no use. Peter stopped and looked at Joe, then back at the burning barn.

  “Who were they, Peter?”

  Peter wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “They were partisans.”

  They were the Lincolnites that Albert was talking about. Joe suddenly thought of Albert. He pointed toward the cabin. “Are they all right?”

  Peter slowly turned to Joe. He was not crying, looked too sad to cry. “They beat him to death,” Peter said so softly that Joe almost didn’t understand him.

  Joe followed Peter into the cabin. Gus was wiping Albert’s face.

  Peter looked astonished. “Is he still alive?”

  Gus said nothing, just nodded.

  Peter turned to Joe. “Fetch some more water from the stream.” Peter took the wet rag from Gus’s crippled hand and dabbed at Albert’s shattered face.

  Joe took the bucket to the stream and scooped water. He picked a small crawfish from the bucket. His mother had taught him not to hate, but he hated those men. They weren’t even real soldiers—they were murderers and thieves. How could a god let this happen? How could a god let wars happen? If this thing was happening here in Tennessee, what was happening in Virginia? Peter could pray, but Joe was done with it. He took the water to the cabin.

  ***

  The next day Peter sat beside Albert’s bed with Gus watching Albert take shallow breaths, thinking each would be the last. Peter had never felt more helpless in his life. Could he have done more? He had asked himself that question repeatedly for the last few days, but the answer was the same: no. The men had held him at gunpoint while they beat Albert with the butt of a rifle. Why Albert was still alive, only God knew.