Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  From the rise, he could see for miles. He felt his heart tear in two. Down the valley smoke floated up from the ground like black pillars, the many pillars supporting a ceiling of smoke like thunderclouds. Houses were there, but the barns, sheds, and farm buildings were smoldering. Fence rails were scattered and burned. Some fields were black, some not. He saw no farm animals. This was not the beautiful valley Joe had bragged about. There were no bountiful fields, no friendly neighbors to meet them. This was a wasteland, raped and pillaged, as if the Goths or Huns from history had stormed through.

  Down the rise, Peter saw a smoking stone foundation beside a stream. Next to it, he saw a burned out waterwheel steaming in the water. He wiped at his eyes. It had been one of the beautiful mills Joe had bragged on—now only a smoldering char.

  What sort of people could have committed such senseless atrocities? How could these Yankees consider their cause right and just? These farms were not rebels, not armies. How would the people—women and children—of this great valley live through the winter? Where did the responsibility lie?

  Peter squeezed Joe’s shoulder. Joe turned, his face pleading—lost. The expression was as foreign to Joe’s face as happiness was now to this valley. Joe looked to Peter for answers—a reason. Peter had none. God, he wished he could say something to comfort the boy. He had never seen such a bewildered and hurt expression as was trespassing on Joe’s face.

  Joe buried his face in Peter’s chest. Peter hurt so much for him. He would do anything to take this unbearable pain from this boy—anything.

  Everything had a limit. Everyone had a limit. Was this Joe’s limit? Peter feared it was.

  Peter felt his shirt grow warm and wet from Joe’s tears. He squeezed Joe. He felt him quiver in his arms like a frightened puppy.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter whispered.

  Joe had told so many stories of the Shenandoah Valley that Peter had come to love it, too. Now it felt as if someone had died. Peter squeezed Joe tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

  A breeze rolled across the rise, and a solitary cinder floated down and settled on Joe’s hair like a small feather. Peter brushed it away, as if it were a wasp, daring to attack this boy at this horrible time. He smoothed Joe’s hair, and held him tightly, but ever so gently, ever so gently.

  ***

  The tired mule labored in front of the buggy as they passed through Dayton. It was just a couple of miles now to the farm, and Joe didn’t want to stop in town.

  Rebel cavalry moved about Dayton. Where were you when the Yankee’s were here, Joe thought. Why didn’t you fight to save this valley?

  Joe reflected on what he had seen in Helena and on the trek to here. What was the South thinking? The Yankees had the best of everything: good clothes, better guns, more food, and more men. The dash of good generals like Forrest was not enough to counter.

  “I don’t know if the mule can go much farther, Joe.”

  “It ain’t far. Just—”

  They rounded a grove of trees. Joe had thought he had seen the worst the Yankees could do. He was wrong. He looked past the exhausted mule’s ears into hell.

  “They burned all the houses here,” Peter said. He turned to Joe. “They burned everything.”

  Joe knew the farms. He remembered the people, his neighbors. He remembered the pretty house that stood right there beside the road, the Krauss’s place—now a pile of ashes. Up the road, the Williams’s—one wall left of the house. The jake was the only thing left not burned.

  As they rode on, Joe paid no attention to people on the road. He didn’t look to see if he recognized them. His farm was the only thing on his mind now.

  They went another mile, and Peter stopped the mule in front of another burned out farm. The house was still standing, but one wall was black.

  “We have to let this animal rest,” Peter said.

  Joe stared at the house and said nothing.

  “Joe, did you hear me?”

  Joe slid from the buggy. He felt his heart twist into a knot.

  “Joe, where are you going?”

  “This is it, Peter,” Joe whispered.

  Peter said nothing.

  Joe stopped at the front dooryard and slowly looked over the house. He felt faint. He had the sensation of falling into a hole, and the entrance was getting smaller and smaller. He remembered crossing the river at Helena, Peter’s pants down to his ankles. It came back to him like a story in a book he hadn’t read in a long, long time. He remembered the homing pigeons at the Donner Plantation. Why was he remembering this now? He recalled the fight with Washington and his bunch. He remembered the big gar and Peter’s delight catching it. He could see in his mind’s eye the passenger pigeons just outside of the hollow sycamore. He recalled falling asleep on that mountain in Tennessee—it was so peaceful there. He remembered the comfort of having Peter there with him on the long journey. He didn’t know it was a comfort then, but he remembers it that way now.

  He knew he was wrong about Helena now. He shouldn’t have thought badly about Curtis’s hometown. The Yankee’s made it bad—too many there. It was surely a pretty place before they destroyed it. Joe closed his eyes. He felt as if he were sliding on ice. He shook his head, hoping to clear his mind.

  He went to the door, grabbed the latch. He didn’t open it.

  He remembered his family at the table the day before they left for Helena. “I’m sure we will be fine,” Pa had said. “The war will be over soon, and we will all be back here like nothing ever happened.”

  He swallowed, but the lump wouldn’t go down. He was the “we.” There would be no one else. If his pa were still alive, he would have gotten word to him. Joe knew that now. He had known it for a long time, but now he admitted it to himself.

  Joe felt Peter behind him. Peter said nothing, but Joe knew he was there; of course, he was. Wasn’t he always?

  Joe took a deep breath, opened the door. The place was not wrecked. There was very little furniture left, but it was in order. In fact, the place was clean. Why had the Yankees not burned this house like the neighbors’? They hadn’t even trashed it.

  Suddenly Peter grabbed Joe and pulled him close. Joe turned and saw the reason. There was a revolver right by his head. The man had been beside the door waiting.

  Joe looked past the big gun to a man with a bandaged head. Joe’s head swam; his knees grew weak. “P...Pa?”

  The revolver slowly descended.

  “Pa!”

  The man dropped the revolver to the floor. “Joseph!”

  Joe flew into his pa’s arms. “Is it really you? I believed you were dead.”

  Josh lifted Joe from the floor in a great bear hug. “Son, thank God, you are still alive. I’ve worried for you so.”

  “I’ve been trying to come home,” Joe sobbed. “We’ve been trying so desperately to come home.”

  “I know you have—I know you have. We are together now by God’s grace, and together we will always be. I’ll never leave you again. The war be damned.”

  Josh lowered Joe to the floor.

  Joe wiped his eyes. “Ma and Sarah are dead, Pa.”

  Josh nodded. “I know, Son.”

  “Uncle Wilbur and Aunt Katie Bea—”

  Josh touched Joe’s lips. “I know, Joe. I received a letter from Zeke a few weeks ago.”

  Joe stepped back. “Why didn’t you write me? Why didn’t you answer my letters?”

  Josh took Joe’s hands. “Son, I was wounded. I didn’t come back to myself until a few months ago. I was in a family’s home in Maryland for a long time, badly wounded. They didn’t know who I was. Son, I didn’t know who I was.”

  Joe looked at the bandage on his pa’s head. “Are you all right now?”

  “I have pains sometimes, but they pass.” He looked down at his leg. “But this will never pass.”

  Joe looked down. “You lost a leg!”

  “Only below the knee. Thank Providence, it wasn’t worse. God knows I’ve seen worse.”

  J
oe looked into his pa’s eyes, remembered the battle at Helena, remembered the dead captain in the gully, remembered the black soldier at Brice’s Crossroads. He hugged his pa again.

  “Who do we have here?” Josh said, looking at Peter.

  Joe removed his arms from around his pa and turned. He had forgotten Peter.

  Peter moved to Josh and extended his hand. “I’m Peter.”

  Joe smiled and looked at Peter. He realized how proud he was of his friend.

  Josh looked at Peter questionably. He took his hand slowly. Suddenly he smiled. “Katie Bea’s little Peter!” He dropped Peter’s hand, pulled Peter close, and hugged him. “Of course—of course. Zeke said you were with him. My God, you are a man now.” He turned to Joe. “You both are.”

  Joe had never felt prouder. Joe took a slow, deep breath. He was home.

  ***

  The next morning as they looked at the mule, Peter could still smell the burning in the air, reminded him of the smell of the burned-out barn in Mississippi.

  Josh smiled. “He ain’t much of an animal, but he should be able to pull a plow. Be better than us pulling it, won’t it, men?”

  Joe looked about the burned sheds and barn. “There’s not much left, is it?”

  “No,” Josh said, “Sheridan’s men did a good job.” He looked absently across a naked field. “This went beyond the boundaries of war. We will never forget.”

  Joe went back to the mule and rubbed it between the ears. “Pa, why is ours the only house around here still standing?”

  Peter had wondered the same thing, but was waiting for a better time to ask. He should have known Joe would cut right to it.

  Josh moved toward Joe, stopped, straightened at his wooden leg. “I didn’t run.”

  “Sir?”

  Josh gave up with the leg and stamped down a couple of times until he was satisfied with the fit. He looked at Joe. “Most men ran from the raiding Yankees. I didn’t. They saw my wounds and asked me my outfit. When I told them, a sergeant said we had whipped them good a couple of times. Out of respect for a wounded soldier, they would spare the house. Said they would set it afire, but would look the other way if I put it out. Said they hated what they were doing, but we shouldn’t have killed Lieutenant Meigs.”

  “Who was that?” Peter asked.

  Josh turned to Peter. “Seems he was one of Sheridan’s favorites. It was said he was killed by bushwhackers near Wenger’s place. In fact, he was killed in a fair fight by Southern cavalry scouts, but didn’t matter. Truth seldom matters in war.”

  Peter knew that was a fact. Truth seems to get twisted in war. Right and wrong seem to lose their way as well.

  Josh pulled himself up into the buggy. “You two stay close to home. The Yankees are pulling down the Valley. God help the people down there. If the Yankees do return, head for Mole Hill.”

  “Yes, sir.” Joe said.

  “I’m going to survey the damage, thanks to your mule. I’m going to check the neighbors farther out. I’m going to see how we are to survive the winter.”

  “Want us to go with you?” Joe asked.

  Josh reached down and smoothed Joe’s hair. “It would be more help if you two would help get what we have left in order, still a lot left to do.”

  After Josh left, Peter found there wasn’t much food on the place. No one had worked the farm for a year or more. The only things left were a few farm implements, no barn, no sheds, no springhouse.

  Peter watched Joe work around the house. The sadness caused by the devastation was still present, but he worked about the place with a determination Peter had never seen from him. Peter knew why. This was home to Joe. This was his goal for the last couple of years. This was his Shenandoah Valley.

  Peter went to the bedroom Mr. Taylor had said was his for as long as he wanted it. It wasn’t much, just a cot and a ragged desk, but it was his, was as good as they had. Peter sat on the cot and placed his face in his hands.

  He had promised Mam he would go to Pennsylvania. It was the last promise he had made to her. She had wanted it badly for him. Pennsylvania would be safe. It would be a better place for a Negro. He could start new, better opportunities.

  Peter got up from the cot and moved to the window, saw Joe pulling vines from a plow. Peter smiled. He loved Joe. No one could love a brother more.

  Joe always knew what he wanted and went for it. Now it was time for him to do the same.

  Peter wiped tears from his cheeks, went to the cot, and pulled his bag from under it. He sniffed and composed himself. He had to stand tall before Joe. He had to show Joe he was a man, or Joe would try to stand in his way.

  Joe stopped pulling vines when he saw the bag. He stood up straight. Said nothing.

  “We made it to the Shenandoah Valley, didn’t we Joe?”

  Joe nodded, said slowly, “We sure did.”

  Peter looked across the Valley, saw a distant flock of pigeons to the north. The burning smell was strong, but he could whiff autumn. He knew he must keep his composure; for once he had to.

  The journey from Helena passed through his mind like a story—a dream. He longed to milk the cow and bring in firewood for Mam, but that was gone like chaff in the wind. He remembered the servants waking at the Donner plantation, the stirring and dawning of a new day. He could still feel the softness of the cotton as he picked beside Stepto at the Taylor farm, and Stepto helping him. He recalled the goat chasing Joe—ah, Joe. He remembered him and Joe wrestling in the stream in Tennessee. Then he remembered Zuey, her beautiful face, and her precious baby. His heart was still in Mississippi with them.

  “You heading on to Pennsylvania, Peter?”

  Peter wrestled the memories from his mind and looked Joe in the eyes. Joe was his friend. Joe was his companion, but Joe was no longer his responsibility. He loved no man more, and never would. They had seen and done things together that bind as no cables ever could. They were brothers.

  God had intervened. God had delivered them. Peter knew God would always watch over Joe. Peter knew he, himself, was an instrument of God—it was his calling, and he was being called away from Joe now.

  Peter pulled Joe to him. “I love you, Joseph Taylor. Remember, God loves you, too.”

  Joe threw his arms around Peter. “I’m sorry about saying bad things about God.” Joe sobbed. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “I know you didn’t. The Almighty knows it, too. You have been through much, but now I believe it is over.” He put Joe at arms’ length. “You are home, Joe. You are with your father. You can make a new start.”

  Joe wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “You can stay with us. Pa don’t care you are a darky.”

  Peter smiled. “I know he doesn’t. I know I’m welcome.”

  “Then stay with us.”

  Peter looked up, saw the flock of pigeons growing larger and closer.

  “Joe, remember how much you wanted to come home? Remember how you longed for the Shenandoah Valley and nothing shorter?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Well, Joe, I have that longing now.”

  “Pennsylvania.”

  “Eventually. But first I’m going back to Mississippi.”

  Joe smiled, wiped his eyes. “Zuey.”

  “That’s right. I have a pulling in my heart.”

  “I do understand, Peter. I had that pulling.”

  Peter squeezed Joe’s shoulder. “I knew you would understand.”

  Joe headed to the house. “Let me leave Pa a note. He may not understand, but you helped me come home, now I’m gonna help you.”

  “Joseph.”

  Joe turned.

  Peter walked to him. “No, Joe. You have realized your destination—your goal. You must stay here with your pa—he needs you.”

  “But, Peter, you need me to help you. We help each other.”

  Peter smiled. “Joe, you have helped me. I’m not the same helpless boy you knew in Arkansas. You have helped me to become a man.”

  Joe said nothing as he lo
oked into Peter’s eyes.

  Peter pulled his Bible from the bag. “You keep this.”

  Joe opened the bible and turned to the cavity. He pulled the necklace and presented it to Peter. “This is yours. Uncle Wilbur gave it to you.”

  “That’s right. He said I was like his own son.” Peter took it. He closed his eyes and kissed it. It had caused grief, but now it would do good. “Here, Joe. It is worth a good deal of money. You and your pa will need money to get back going.”

  “But Peter, it’s yours.”

  “You’re mine too, Joe—my family. When we come back through, we will need your help to get to Pennsylvania. How can you help me if you don’t help yourself? Dr. Taylor would have approved.”

  Joe took it. “Aunt Katie Bea would have approved of you going after Zuey.”

  That touched Peter’s heart. He had to turn away.

  Joe said, “I’ll be waiting to help you get to Pennsylvania.” He pulled his tomahawk from his belt. “Here, you will need this.”

  Peter hesitated, but took it. He looked it over. All the memories flooded back. He knew what it meant to Joe, and he had given it freely. He kissed Joe on the forehead. “I love you, Joseph.”

  “Pshaw.” Joe kicked at a weed.

  The pigeons were over them now, thousands of wild birds heading south for the winter. It was like a cloud covering the land. Peter and Joe looked up in amazement for a time. Slowly they looked at each other and smiled. Peter turned and started down the road following the pigeons’ path south.

  “Be careful Peter,” Joe called above the noisy wings.

  Peter didn’t bother to wipe his tears, nor did he look back.

  “Practice with the tomahawk. You know you ain’t that good, yet.” Joe’s voice was growing fainter as Peter walked. “If you change your mind, Peter, I will help you.”

  Peter tried to find the lead pigeon, but he was long over the southern horizon.

  “You are my best friend, Peter.”

  The pigeons resembled a wide, black serpent snaking across the sky. God’s birds of abundance, Peter thought.

  Peter’s eyes burned. He would not turn back. If he did, he would not want to let go of Joe—his best friend.