“Fetch up here, Joe,” John said. “We is got to get you two back to the place to get tended.”
Joe headed for the buggy, stopped, remembered the Bible. He picked it up and saw the cavity in it, smiled, placed the necklace in it. He found the ribbon on the ground and secured the Bible closed. Peter was one smart person.
Burt helped Joe into the buggy beside Peter. John turned the mule, and he and Burt led the buggy south.
***
Peter felt better the next day, but Joe lay in the bed for a week with a fever. His face had swollen like a pumpkin before it finally started to heal. Peter worried over him like a mother.
He felt of Joe’s face as Joe slept—it was cool, good. It was very good, indeed, since Peter had thought Joe was dead after Lucius had smashed him with that massive fist.
He left Joe’s bedside and wandered outside past the quarters, stopping under the Five Kings. The nuts were starting to fall. He picked up a couple and cracked them against each other. The nuts were sweet, as good as a pecan.
The sun was just threatening to show itself over the east mountain. He leaned against the trunk of one of the old trees. They would soon leave again for the Valley. What would they find? He prayed Mr. Taylor would be there—someone would be there for Joe.
He watched a squirrel cutting a nut on one of the massive limbs. The cuttings rained down like flower petals.
He could smell autumn in the air, nothing like it. Soon color would paint everything: reds, yellows, oranges, browns. Then winter would come. Peter knew he would have to be in place by then—wherever that was.
He heard ducks overhead, saw them in a ragged V. They were heading south.
South—he thought about that. He remembered all of the misery and destruction and death. But then, he remembered the love—Zuey. He had never forgotten her. He saw her face every time he closed his eyes. It was her face he saw when everything went black as Lucius held him under the water. He had thought he would never see her again. He smelled her sometimes, too—only for a fleeting second, not the wildflowers beside the road—her.
The squirrel came down the trunk beside Peter’s head. It stopped, whipped its tail, then jumped to the ground. It picked up a nut and climbed on Peter’s leg to eat it. Peter smiled, feeling the squirrel’s body move as he chomped the nut. Peter thought how men were destroying the country with war, and everything would be changed after the war. Men would never be the same, but squirrels had probably been living and eating in these five chestnut trees for a hundred years, and that would probably never change.
The squirrel suddenly darted up Peter’s shirt and up the tree. Peter looked to see what had frightened the squirrel. He saw Joe coming.
He got to his feet. “What are you doing out of the bed?”
Joe picked up a nut. “They’re falling good. We’ll get us some for the trip.”
Peter gently took Joe’s face in his hands and inspected it.
“Nation, Peter, I couldn’t stay in that bed any longer. Besides I feel better, and the swelling is most gone.”
Peter let go of Joe’s face. He was right. He looked much better. Peter smiled.
“Besides,” Joe said, “I couldn’t stand another minute of Mrs. Belle fussing over me.”
“She means well by you.”
“I know she does. She is capital, but I feel like a cooped chicken.” Joe spotted the squirrel on the limb. He threw a nut at it, and the squirrel vanished up the tree. Joe turned to Peter. “Let’s leave tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” Peter said. He thought for a minute. Joe seemed better, and it was getting cooler, especially at night. “I think you are right. Tomorrow sounds good.”
Joe nodded and smiled. He picked up a handful of nuts and went back toward the quarters. Peter heard John say, “That hurt.” Joe had hit him with a nut, Peter reckoned.
At least there would be no Lucius on the way, at least not a live one. He was buried only a few feet from where he died.
Slowly misery came over Peter again. It had haunted him since that day at the creek. He had hated Lucius. It was a sin of the worse sort. He had prayed for forgiveness, and he knew The Lord had forgiven him, but he couldn’t forgive himself. He had hated Lucius so much, he would have killed him if he could—in fact, had tried. Peter knew he was protecting Joe, but that didn’t mean he had to hate.
Peter leaned his head against the big trunk. When will all this be over? What will we find in the Shenandoah Valley? What will I do? Peter felt the weight again.
“Oh God, help me. Show me a guiding light. Please help me, won’t you?” Peter sobbed into his arm. “Please take this weight from me. I can’t bear it alone—I can’t.”
Peter saw his mother’s face in his mind. He heard her voice telling him to go north. He remembered the promise. He wiped his eyes and sniffed, had to get ready for tomorrow. It was still a long way to the end.
***
The swayback mule pulled the buggy at a pretty good clip. Joe leaned back and watched the countryside pass by as the sun grew low in the west. He wasn’t feeling well, tingled all over. He covered his face with a rag when the soldiers rode past. They saw more Confederates the farther they rode. A sergeant had asked where they were headed. He had said they were fools because the Yankees were in the Valley, had told them Lexington was just a few mile up the road and told them they should stay there until the Yankees were driven out of the Valley.
Peter put the back of his hand on Joe’s forehead. “You’re burning up. We should have waited a few more days.”
Joe said nothing. He felt too sick to argue with Peter. He felt cold, though he was sweating.
He wished they would soon be at the farm, but he knew it took a long day’s ride to get from Lexington to Dayton, remembered that from past trips with his pa.
He buried himself in the seat like a quail in a tuft of grass and thought of home. Later, he wouldn’t be able to say if he had been asleep and dreaming or awake and just daydreaming as the buggy rocked along.
When spring came, he and his pa would plant a good crop of corn and wheat. The mule should be able to pull a plow—it pulled the buggy just fine. He didn’t worry about the winter. There were many good neighbors, and there was plenty in the Valley. Good neighbors are like family, and family always helps each other through hard times. They could kill squirrels and rabbits to eat if they had to. Yes, there was plenty to eat in the Valley. Joe knew he could find work at the mills. He could do most anything. He could feed hogs or herd sheep. He could even milk cows, but Peter was better at that.
But all that planning was probably for nothing. His pa probably had the farm in order. If he couldn’t do it himself, being in the army, he probably hired the work out. Probably hired a servant from one of the slave men. Joe smiled. Sure, that’s what they’ll find when they get there—the farm in good order.
Joe felt himself being lifted from the buggy. He realized they had stopped, and Peter had him in his arms. It was night. “What is it, Peter?”
“We are going to stay at this inn for the night,” Peter said as he carried Joe through the door.
An old bald man with a cane looked at Joe. “Yes—yes, put him in the bed. The cistern is around the back. You need to cool him down I tell you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Peter said.
“I reckon you can sleep on the floor in his room,” the man said. “I normally don’t let coloreds stay inside, but I’ll make an exception for the boy. There is a little soup left.” He pointed toward the fireplace. “I’ll leave it there for you.”
The inn smelled like whiskey and tobacco spit. Joe saw a cat asleep on a long bar. There was a spittoon on the floor with brown spit all over it and on the floor beside it.
Peter maneuvered through a narrow door and placed Joe on the bed. The bed felt like rutted ground where cows had tramped through. It smelled like rotten hay. There was no pillow.
“Where did you get the money, Peter?”
“The man said we could st
ay for free, unless a paying customer comes, then we have to go.”
Joe figured they were there for the night. No one would pay to stay in that place.
Peter left for a few minutes, then returned with a pan and a wet rag. Joe felt the coolness on his forehead. He looked up and saw his mother’s face as she smoothed his hair back. He was still shivering, but he felt warmer inside as his mother tended him. Soon he was asleep.
***
Peter awoke with a start. He heard yelling coming from the front where the bar was.
“Sergeant, get these men outta here,” the innkeeper said.
“We want a damn room—all of us!”
Peter heard rummaging and people yelling from the other rooms.
“I will be sure General Early, himself, hears of this,” the innkeeper said.
“General Early my, ass,” the sergeant said.
A gunshot exploded in the other room. There was more yelling.
Joe sat up. “What’s going on, Peter?”
Peter raised the window and looked out—saw no one. He looped their bags over his arm and scooped Joe from the bed. They went out the window, and Peter found the buggy. He placed Joe in it and quickly hitched the mule.
“What is it, Peter?”
“I don’t know, but we are making tracks.”
Through the darkness, Peter saw a soldier coming toward them. The man rubbed the mule between the ears. “Where will you go this time of morning?”
“Mind your own dooryard,” Joe said.
The man jumped. He hadn’t seen Joe in the buggy.
Why couldn’t Joe just keep his mouth shut Peter wondered. He would get them killed, yet.
The man went to the buggy. “Boy, don’t I know you?”
“I don’t know any scoundrels that will come in the night and put people out of an inn.”
“Sir, the boy doesn’t mean any harm,” Peter said. “He has a fever and is talking out of his head.” Peter stood beside the man, a Confederate private. “Joe, you shouldn’t talk that way to our own soldiers.”
The man looked at Peter, then back toward Joe. “Joe? Joseph Taylor?”
“How did you know that?” Peter asked.
The man ignored Peter and climbed into the buggy beside Joe. “Joe, I’m John Ebert. Remember me? My pa has a mill close to Bridgewater. Y’all bought a colt from us.”
“I remember,” Joe said. “You led me around on the colt.” Joe’s head rolled and rested on the side of the buggy. “I remember.”
John felt of Joe’s face. “He’s burning up.”
“I know he is, but you people ran us out of the inn,” Peter said.
John climbed down. “Who are you?”
“My name is Peter, a friend. I told Joe’s uncle I would get him back home.”
“Home!” John said. “Yankees are crawling over the Valley like ants. You can’t take him there.”
“There is nowhere else,” Peter said.
Another shot rang out from within the inn. They looked toward the inn.
“That’s a mean bunch I’m with. I’m guiding them to General Early. That sergeant hates darkies, so you best be on your way.” He looked at Peter. “You go back south.”
Peter saw the young man meant well, but was caught in a bad situation.
“Sir, we have come all the way from Arkansas, and we are going on to Joe’s farm near Dayton. He won’t have it any other way.”
People began coming out of the inn in their nightclothes. John shook his head. “Well, if that’s that, you should be past Staunton, by daybreak. Now get, before the sergeant sees you.” John went toward the people coming from the inn. He turned back. “Take care of that boy. His pa was wounded awhile back, and I don’t know his fate.”
Peter climbed in beside Joe and turned the mule onto the road. As they passed by the door of the inn, Peter heard John tell the sergeant that he couldn’t turn these people into the night. The sergeant started yelling.
***
The stars were brilliant in the sky. Peter admired them, letting the mule follow the road on his own. He watched them twinkle and disappear, then reappear as a small cloud passed between heaven and earth. These same stars were also looking over Helena and Mam’s and Dr. Taylor’s graves. Their reflections were dancing in the current of the Mississippi. They were also decorating the sky over the Taylor farm in Mississippi. Zuey was surely asleep right this very instant under these very stars. Peter could see her face as surely, as if she were right in front of him. He longed for her like a thirst for water. He missed her in the fashion he missed his mother and Dr. Taylor, except she was still alive. She could walk out of the Taylor house this instant and look up at these very stars. His heart pulled inside. He would rather be with her this second than with anyone else on earth.
Joe stirred restlessly. Peter felt his forehead. The fever was breaking—good.
Peter smiled. Joe was one of a kind. He was not bad—not really. He was just mischievous. One thing was for sure—Joe was never indecisive. He knew what he wanted, and he went for it barrels blazing. Peter knew he could never be like Joe, but that was fine. God probably only intended for there to be one Joseph Taylor with his special Shenandoah Valley.
The mule did his business, and the smell engulfed the buggy. Peter knew if Joe were awake, he would laugh for a time.
Peter smoothed Joe’s hair from his face. Joe moved to a better position, but didn’t wake. Peter bent over and kissed Joe’s head. Joe would have never allowed such a thing if he were awake. Peter smiled. Joe was tough as a pine knot and rough as a cob.
Peter smelled smoke, turned and looked up the road. He saw several wagons beside the road, a camp. What were they doing there? As the buggy drew near, Peter saw the wagons filled with furniture and the trappings of a home, but these wagons were from more than one home. He saw more wagons up the road. This was not good. They were running from something.
Peter rode past. What else was there to do? He couldn’t turn back, no matter what was up ahead. They had no more money and no more food. He and Joe were not beggars. Besides, Joe needed to rest for a few days, and Joe would not turn back anyway.
***
It was still dark when they rolled into Staunton. Peter went on through. There was a stir in the town. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t want them to get involved in the mess. The mule was tired, but he would just have to go on.
Outside of town, Peter smelled smoke again, but saw no fires. He was looking for the source when he saw three horsemen in the road. He prayed things would go well. When he came along side the men, one rode over to the buggy and looked in, a Confederate soldier.
“Where you headed?” the man said. He was a young man, a captain, with a long dark beard.
“We are going to Dayton.”
The man looked at Joe, then looked back up at Peter. “He sick?”
“Yes, sir, took a bad fall. Now he has a fever, but I think it is about to break.” Peter didn’t think the Lord would mind such a small falsehood. Peter didn’t want to get into details with the soldier. “Our farm is on the other side of Dayton.”
“Y’all been away?”
“Yes, sir, been to Mississippi.”
The man looked up the road. “Boy, Yankees are up ahead of you. People are leaving the Valley coming and going, mostly going north with the Yankees’s blessings. If you go up there, it could get nasty.”
“We have to go.”
Another man came along side. “Captain, that swayback has a US brand.”
The captain looked, then looked back in the buggy. “How did y’all come about that animal?”
Peter hesitated. “General Forrest gave it to us in Mississippi when one of his men snatched me for a slave. Joe here came after me. There was a ruckus, and Joe was hurt by the man. The General was upset and gave us the mule to set it right.”
The captain looked at his men, then back at Peter. “You’re not a slave?”
“No, sir. I’ve never been a slave.”
The captain wiped his face with his hand. “That’s a hell of a story.”
Peter said nothing, wished he hadn’t lost the note from Forrest.
The captain reached for Joe. Peter grabbed his arm. The captain smiled, and Peter slowly released him. The captain sat back on his horse. “I believe your story. It’s a hell of story, but I believe you. I can see you are looking out for the boy, so I’m not worried you will let him come to harm up the road.” The captain pulled at his beard. “Be careful. Them Yankees may not cotton to you getting one of their mules from Forrest. Don’t tell them that story.” The captain turned his horse and the rest of the men silently followed him. Peter was relieved Joe never woke.
***
From the directions Joe had given him, Peter believed Bridgewater had to be near, and Dayton would be on the other side of that. All Peter had to do was keep the mule heading down the pike, and he would make his destination. Peter felt the weight lifting every mile, but at the same time, he felt a queer discomfort.
For the last few miles, Peter had been watching an orange glow up ahead. It was a fire, no doubt, maybe a house fire or a grass fire. He prayed no one was hurt.
He looked over at Joe, still sleeping. It was a good thing. The boy needed it. His fever was gone. He would feel better when he awoke. Peter felt his own eyes grow heavy. He leaned back. The mule would keep to the road.
***
Peter jumped. A wren flew from his knee. He smiled. Who was the most afraid? He looked around—daylight. Joe wasn’t in the buggy. The mule had stopped the buggy in the middle of the road. Peter panicked, but looked up to find Joe standing in front of the mule staring up the road.
Peter smiled, started to say something to Joe, but he was suddenly overwhelmed. They were atop a rise, and Peter could see for miles. He had discovered the source of the smoke he had been smelling.
“Dear God above, please help my Joseph.”
Chapter 2 3
Peter dropped from the buggy, drew his praying hands to his face. “Dear God, no.”
Chase The Wild Pigeons Page 35
