Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Joe looked around. It was a nice time of day he reckoned. He looked back at Peter; Peter was staring at the mountains, but he was miles away.

  “Listen at those ole hoot owls calling to each other,” Peter said. “Zuey and I used to walk down the path to the river about this time of day and those owls would call just like that—whippoorwills, too.”

  “More skeeters back there in Mississippi than here,” Joe said.

  Peter looked at Joe, but more looked past him. “Reckon what Zuey is doing now.”

  Joe had a sudden sinking feeling. Now he had a small idea what Zuey really meant to Peter. If he felt so silly about Mary, what did Peter feel for Zuey? Joe had been selfish. He had not really appreciated what Peter had left behind to go with him, not really. He would bet his last coin that Peter had a heavy weighing in his chest at this very moment in this very garden. Joe felt he could sink right in the ground. He knew what Peter had sacrificed, and he knew why he had done it.

  “Peter,” Joe said softly. Peter looked at him and Joe felt even worse. “I know...a...how...”

  “What are you talking about?” Peter said.

  Joe turned, reached down, and grabbed a mean-looking weed. “Nothing.”

  Peter took Joe’s cue and started hoeing weeds again.

  ***

  Joe and Peter had made their bed on the floor of the cabin. Peter had found it to be all right—at least it was not a barn. When he awoke, Joe was already gone. Peter knew he was in the garden. He had been working it as if his life depended on it. No doubt, he wanted to impress Mary when she returned—if she returned. It had now been five days and Mrs. Sawyer had said they would be back in a couple.

  Joe was already soaked with sweat when Peter found him working. The boys had some of the garden planted, and now were waiting for Mrs. Sawyer to bring the seeds for the collards and what ever else she had. Joe was leaning on a hoe and staring toward the overgrown fields. He did not see Peter. Peter watched him. He had seen that look on Joe’s face many times. Something was about to happen. Joe threw the hoe down, kicked dirt, squatted, picked up a clod, rolled it around in his hand, and crushed it, all the while staring at the overgrown field.

  Peter could not stand it any longer. He went to the garden. “What goes?”

  Joe didn’t take his eyes from the overgrown fields. “I aim to catch them steers.”

  Peter looked to where Joe was looking, but didn’t see anything but overgrown fields and thick saplings over head high.

  “I’ve seen them,” Joe said. The day the bushwhackers came I saw both of them, and I believe I saw one go into that old corn field.”

  “Joe, that’s a jungle now, not a field, and what do we need with them? We aren’t going to be here long enough to plow fields, and Gus or Albert will not be able to use the beasts.”

  Joe looked at Peter as if he had said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “We can sell them, Peter.”

  Peter smiled, of course, they could. Why didn’t he think of that? If they sold the oxen, they could buy things for the two elderly men and be on their way.

  Joe grabbed a length of rope from around a fence post. “Come on, Peter, let’s get skinning.”

  ***

  Peter saw Joe’s white hair above the tall weeds, but that was all he could see of him. Peter didn’t like it. There could be creatures and only the Good Lord knew what else lurking in the overgrown field. There could be snakes. He hated snakes.

  Joe had a plan: they would align themselves about fifty yards apart and walk up and down the field until they spotted a steer. It seemed like a good enough plan to Peter. An ox was big; there should be no problem finding one if it was in the field. Peter quickly realized the flaw in the plan. True enough an ox was big, but this overgrown field was more like a forest, old corn over head-high and weeds even higher.

  There were trails in the field that seemed like pikes, tracks of all sort—Peter had no idea what animal left them. There could be bears or even elephants as far as he knew. However, there were ox and hog tracks. He knew what they were, and he saw them wholesale. Maybe Joe knew what he was doing after all.

  Peter bent down to examine a track further. Was it a cat track? Oh, lord, Peter thought—a panther. He looked it over. It sure looked like a big cat. He rose, suddenly realized he had lost his bearing. He scanned the weeds, looking for that white head, but saw it nowhere. He turned. He jumped to get above the weeds, but couldn’t see Joe.

  “Joe!”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Joe, where are you? I seemed to be turned around.”

  Still no answer.

  Peter eased through the weeds. The wind started to blow; a dark cloud had covered the sun. The dried leaves on the corn rattled. He didn’t want to yell too loudly. He didn’t want Joe to think he was afraid. Cockleburs clung all over his clothes, and he was beginning to sweat—more from discomfort than the heat, though it was the middle of August.

  He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was scared. Scared of what? There was nothing to harm him in the field. He bet Joe wasn’t afraid, and he was just a thirteen-year-old boy.

  Thirteen. Joe had turned thirteen and he hadn’t even noticed. It was hard to believe the boy was that old. He was so short—much too short for a thirteen-year-old. He would have to acknowledge the boy’s birthday just as soon as—

  Suddenly, Peter heard a rattle and something slapped against his leg. He wanted to yell, but it caught in his throat. He leaped aside, but couldn’t make his legs move to run. He felt his whole body quake with fear. It was a snake—he knew it. He wanted to look down, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He began to tremble. He was shaking all over and couldn’t stop. Everything went snowy, then a pink, then red. He shook his head to clear his senses. It would do no good to pass out. Slowly he realized he wasn’t bitten—there was no pain. He looked down at his pants and found no holes. He looked to see the snake. It was a blown-over corn stalk. He had stepped on the root, and it kicked up and slapped his leg. He didn’t feel foolish. He felt relieved.

  However, he was still lost, and that dark cloud was just the lead for more. It was going to storm. He needed to find Joe and they needed to get back to the cabin.

  “Peter!” Joe yelled. “Coming your way.”

  Peter spotted Joe ahead of him. He saw his arms waving. What was coming his way? It didn’t matter now. He had found Joe and he was going to him.

  “Coming your way!” Joe shouted again.

  Peter saw the weeds and corn parting and something moving toward him. It was coming quickly—too quickly. Peter yelled at whatever it was. It stopped about twenty feet from him. The wind blew from that direction, and Peter smelled cow manure, but he could still see nothing.

  Now what? Peter saw the weeds moving behind the ox—that was Joe coming. The ox must have seen it, too. It eased forward, and suddenly Peter and the white-faced ox were eye to eye. Peter slowly lifted his hand to the animal. The ox didn’t move. Peter rubbed his floppy ear; the animal seemed to relax.

  “Where are you, Peter?” Joe called.

  Peter raised his hand and waved.

  Joe barreled up beside Peter, almost knocking him over. He looked at the big ox, then at Peter. “Well, there is an ox.”

  Peter grinned, then laughed. “Yeah, there he is.” He laughed not just at Joe’s ridiculous statement, but also at the snake that wasn’t there. He laughed at being in an overgrown cornfield in Tennessee hundreds of miles from anything or anybody he knew, except this strange white-headed boy that did the craziest things. He pointed to the ox, which had a stalk hanging from its mouth that looked like a fat cigar, and laughed harder still.

  Joe moved the looped rope over the ox and looked at Peter. “Peter, are you all right?”

  Peter stopped laughing suddenly. With a straight face he said, “I got lost looking for this animal, but he found me instead of me finding him.” He laughed again. He didn’t know why he was laughing, but he couldn’t stop.

  Jo
e looked at Peter as if he had lost his mind. “Lost? All you had to do was look above the weeds at the mountains and get yourself straight with them.”

  Peter stopped laughing and rubbed his nose. Of course, Joe was right. He should have thought of that, but he hadn’t. Joe always thought clearly—always. Joe may have done some foolish things, but he was clear-headed.

  Now Peter knew what he had always known, but had not wanted to admit it. He knew it back in the little house when Joe shot the man with the revolver. He knew it when he lost control when the hog revived at the Taylor farm. He had promised Dr. Taylor he would watch out for Joe. But Joe was the one looking out for him. A heavy weight hung inside his chest. Dr. Taylor must have known. He knew the two boys’ different personalities—yes, he knew.

  “Peter, are you feeling all right?”

  Peter forced a smile. He wished he had Joe’s self-confidence.

  Lightening flashed and thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “We better get back to the cabin,” Peter said. “You lead the way.”

  Peter followed Joe and the ox through the weeds and corn. Joe whistled and hummed Shenandoah as he led the beast. Peter lowered his head and just followed.

  ***

  Two weeks had passed and Joe was beginning to think Mrs. Sawyer and Mary were not coming back. It was like most people; they mean things when they say it, but they never get around to doing it. He wasn’t that way—if he said it, he did it.

  Peter and Gus fussed over Albert; he was coming around nicely. Joe found the man to be a mean old coot, gave orders like a sergeant, but not to Joe. He stayed away and explored the farm. That was the way to stay clear of that noise.

  He had caught four hogs now, and he had both steers. As he fed the hogs what little feed he could find, he knew he had to make a move. Food was running short. There was only one thing to do: go to town and find someone to buy the steers. They could use the money for food for Albert and Gus and feed for the hogs.

  Peter came around the cabin to dump the slop jar. Joe went to him, steering clear of the discarded contents.

  “I’m fixing to go to town and sell them steers,” Joe said.

  Peter shook the last of the piss from the slop jar. “You don’t know anything about driving a team of oxen.”

  This was true, Joe thought. “Do you have a better plan?”

  “Take the mule to town and see if you can find someone interested in purchasing the oxen, then bring them out here.”

  Peter was right. In less than five minutes, Joe was on the mule. He rode out of the valley, and it felt like coming out of a well. They had been there over three weeks. They should have been in Virginia a month ago. That settled the hash; when he got back to the farm, they would hit the road for the Valley.

  ***

  Joe was about five miles from the farm when he saw cavalry coming. He wasn’t going to hide. Damn the Yankees, but for that matter, they could be Rebels; damn them, too.

  They were Yankees all right. They rode by him, laughing and pointing. He put his hand over his face, but the dust got through, and he gagged and coughed long after the troopers had ridden on by. The last troopers were leading mules and cows. They had stolen them, no doubt. Cavalry on both sides were nothing but thieves.

  Joe waddled on down the road on the swayback mule. He knew he would have to give the buyer a very good deal for the team. Times were hard here, but someone would need them, especially with the Yankees stealing from the farmers.

  Joe stopped the mule. Those Yankees were stealing for sure, and now they were riding straight for the farm. They would turn down the little road—of course they would. They would probably raid every farm. Joe sawed the mule around, but he was much slower than the horses. He prodded the mule as fast as it would go.

  What would he do when he arrived there? Hadn’t every farmer argued to keep his livestock? Hadn’t the Yankees taken it anyway? What could he do different? This was the sorry truth of war.

  The blue troopers were pouring from the little valley road like a blue serpent when he finally got there. He saw the pigs laying in a wagon. He climbed down from the mule, saw both oxen being pulled individually behind troopers. How could this be fair? Where was God? Peter said God helped the ones that couldn’t help themselves. Where was that help now? Slowly the thieves disappeared up the road in a dusty cloud.

  Peter sat on the porch staring into space when Joe stepped down from the mule. He seemed strange to Joe, just sat there. “Did they hurt anybody?” Joe asked. He tied the mule to the post. Peter didn’t answer—he hadn’t even acknowledged Joe’s arrival. Joe shook Peter’s shoulder.

  Peter slowly found Joe’s eyes. “They took all the animals, every last one.”

  Joe looked at the cabin door.

  Peter saw him looking. “They didn’t hurt anyone—not physically, anyway.”

  What did he mean by that? Did they hurt anybody or not?

  Joe stepped up to open the door, but hesitated. He could hear Gus talking. He was talking in a soothing voice to Albert. “Things be fine by and by, Massuh Albert. The boys done got us a garden started. I know that fine lady, Mrs. Sawyer, be back soon. We be fine, you’ll see.”

  Albert said nothing.

  Joe stepped away from the door. Peter was still just sitting staring blankly up the road. They had lost. They tried to do good by these old men, but they had failed. There was nothing else to be done; it was time to move on. It was now September and past time to leave.

  Joe sat beside Peter. “It’s time.”

  “Yes, I know,” Peter said, looking at Joe.

  “There is nothing more we can do here, but live day to day and that is no good,” Joe said.

  “Right.”

  “We have a little money left we can give them,” Joe said.

  “Yes.”

  They looked at each other for a minute, not knowing what else to say.

  Joe stood and looked at the door, squared his shoulders, and advanced on it. He felt Peter behind him. They went in.

  ***

  They turned onto the main road to Knoxville, had gone a few hundred yards when Joe turned and saw Mrs. Sawyer and Mary coming from the other direction. Peter had the reins and seemed not to notice. Mrs. Sawyer turned the wagon onto the road leading down to the farm from where Joe and Peter had just come. She seemed to not notice the boys on the mule. Joe wondered if Peter and Mrs. Sawyer were that blind.

  Mary slowly raised her hand and waved. She was so very pretty. Joe raised his hand. He watched the wagon disappear down the lane as the swayback mule walked on. Joe turned to tell Peter to go back. He changed his mind when he saw a tear streaming down Peter’s cheek. When Joe turned back to the wagon, it was hidden behind the trees, hidden to be seen no more. Joe turned, slowly pulled his harmonica from his pocket, and soon Shenandoah echoed from the trees with the mules bobbing head keeping time.

  Chapter 1 9

  Lucius grimaced when he saw the slave quarters at the Taylor farm, looked too much like the ones at the plantation where he had escaped, like dog houses lined up in a neat row. After all, to white men, slaves were dogs.

  He looked back down the road; there was Theo dragging behind. If Theo weren’t a necessity, he would have killed him long ago. The fat toad was not much of a man. Lucius hated all white men, but worthless, lazy, cowards were the worst.

  “Fetch on up here,” Lucius said. “Look like a massuh; look respectful and honorable.”

  Theo puffed on up to Lucius, sweating like a pig and red-faced. Lucius looked the man over and simply shook his head in disgust.

  “Just let me have one little swig of that laudanum,” Theo said.

  “No suh.” Lucius patted his bag containing all his stuff. “Only after you plays your part here will you get a snort. You ain’t gonna get us killed here like you about did back in Oxford.”

  “We got out of that fix just fine, didn’t we?”

  “You’s done got us into too many tight fixes. Now shut your trap and do
like I says, and things will be right.”

  If Theo fudged up this time, he was a dead man, “play massuh” or no “play massuh.” They had left Helena in June. Now here it was August, and they still hadn’t caught up to the boy, too many obstacles, and that damn Theo caused most of them. They spent a week in jail at Oxford—he should have killed the fat man then. However, Lucius reckoned it was his own fault, gave Theo too much laudanum; he would have to ration it better. No matter now, they had finally found New Albany and with good luck, found the farm of Dr. Taylor’s brother. He could thank Theo for that. He was finally acting like a master.

  When had they passed a farmer a ways back, he actually struck up a sensible conversation with the man and had discovered this handy information. Just when Lucius doubted Theo and his own plan, things seemed to be turning for the better.

  This farm was a nice one. The cotton was swelling in the bowls. In just a couple of weeks, the land would look snow-covered. The corn had been harvested, and he saw many Negroes cutting the stalks and stacking them. A large white man worked along side them. A few of the Negroes watched as Lucius and Theo approached, but the white man only gave them a glance and went back to cutting the stalks.

  Lucius moved behind Theo. “You leads the way, and remember how we studied on what to say.”

  Theo spoke over his shoulder. “Just follow your master and things will be well.”

  They crossed the field to the white man. He finally looked up when they were only a few feet from him. Some of the Negroes looked on, but most kept cutting and stacking stalks.

  “How do?” Theo said, extending his fat hand. “My name is Theo Caldwell.”

  Lucius grimaced inside. Theo’s acting still needed a lot of work.

  The man looked at Theo’s hand for a long moment, then looked up and slowly took the chubby hand in his. Lucius noticed the contrast: Theo’s hand was pudgy and pink, but the other man’s hand was hard, and his arms were muscular, no stranger to work.

  “Zeke Taylor.”