Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Chapter 5

  Lucius stood inside the doorway of the store cleaning the shelves. The morning sunlight flowed through the open door; dust floated in the sunbeam like a wisp of smoke.

  Theo dropped a five-pound sack of salt on the counter and smiled at the pretty, young lady there to buy it.

  “Well, now, Mrs. Simmons, I reckon we are better off for it that them Yankees whipped the Johnny’s. The long and short of it is: if the Yanks hadn’t won the battle last week, you might not be a-getting this here salt.” He pulled a ledger from under the counter. “We are right fortunate to get merchandise from them Yankee riverboats, I tell you.” He grinned and laid his fat paw on her hand.

  Mrs. Simmons grabbed the salt from the counter. “I could have gotten by without the salt if it would have helped us in our revolution.” Her dress brushed against Lucius as she marched from the store.

  When she cleared the door, Theo mocked her, “I could have gotten by without the salt.”

  Lucius stared at the fat, sweaty man. What side did Theo fall on, Yank or Secesh? Neither side would want such a worthless beast. If the gray boys had won the battle, he would have talked that up to be the best thing.

  “What are you staring at boy?” Theo asked. He spat in a can.

  “Nothing, Massuh.” Lucius turned back to his dusting. Theo was pushing him to his limit with that big mouth. It would be so easy to bring him down a peg.

  An old woman entered the store. She wore fine clothes, but not as fine as they once had been, and she carried herself so high and mighty. Lucius had never seen her before, but he knew her all the same. He had seen her kind; she was the missus of a plantation, no doubt on that. As she walked by Lucius, she looked at him as if he were a smelly horse. Where were her slaves now? He would have felt top feather just to slap her—so high and mighty. She turned back as she approached the counter and gave him another sour look.

  Lucius spotted a necklace on her. It had a big thing on it. He couldn’t remember what it was called, sounded like roach or was it poach?

  Although the necklace wasn’t the same, it reminded him of the picture of Dr. Taylor’s wife and the necklace she wore in it, the two gold birds with the red eyes. His mother had told him of the birds when he was a boy. The birds had come from the other country—gold birds with eyes of fire—African birds.

  He had loved those stories. They took him away from hard times, away from bondage to free Africa. Free to run like a deer, free to hunt like the mighty lion. A man was a man over there, not a piece of property.

  “Lucius. Lucius!” Theo called.

  Lucius heard Theo, remembered where he was, and started dusting again.

  Theo shook his head. “I need you to deliver a sack of flour for Mrs. Hodges.”

  Lucius put the duster on the shelf and went to the far wall where the flour was stacked. He tossed the fifty-pound sack over his shoulder like a rag.

  “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Hodges?” Theo asked.

  “No, thank you, Theo. That will be all.”

  Theo scribbled something in the book.

  Lucius followed the old woman through the door. Theo called for Lucius to close the door on his way out.

  As Lucius passed the window, he saw Theo dash to the storeroom. Lucius grinned at Theo’s disgusting weakness. The weakness was a key, and Lucius would someday have that key in his pocket.

  ***

  Peter scrubbed the kitchen floor for the second time that morning. They had cleaned and repaired the house after the battle, but it didn’t seem to be enough. Mam would want it clean, so he labored at it. It must be spotless; it must be the way she would have cleaned it.

  Dr. Taylor came into the kitchen. Peter felt him looking at him, but he didn’t look up or stop scrubbing.

  Dr. Taylor sat at the table. “Peter, come sit with me.”

  Peter reluctantly dropped the sponge into the bucket, dried his hands on an apron, and sat across from Dr. Taylor. He didn’t want to be there; he wanted to finish the floor.

  Dr. Taylor smiled softly. “I miss her too.”

  Peter believed him, but she wasn’t his mother. No one felt the tearing pain in the heart as he did. No one cried all night as he did and tried to hide it so no one would know. It was his mother, not anyone else. She was the only family he had in the world.

  Dr. Taylor lit his pipe, pulled back from the table, and crossed his legs. He drew at the pipe, stared out the kitchen window.

  “When your father died,” Dr. Taylor said, still looking toward the window, “God gave me the wisdom to take you and Katie Bea in. When Mrs. Taylor died, you two filled a void—an indescribable hollow.” He turned to Peter. “Peter, you are my family now and I love you as a son.”

  Peter felt the corners of his eyes burn. He always believed Dr. Taylor thought a great deal for him, but now he had it from his mouth. A warmth fell over him as complete as sunshine.

  “I’ve thought on it, and we are going back to Pennsylvania. I came to Helena running from something that I can never outrun.”

  God can help you, Peter thought, but he didn’t say it. He was still struggling with his own sorrow.

  “I will sell the store. I’m sick of trading cotton. Some of the officers are even trading escaped slaves back to their masters for the cotton. I want no more of this.” He reached for Peter’s hand. “We will go home, and I will resume my practice, and we will build from there.”

  Peter felt the first bit of hope since the day of the battle. It could never be as it was when Mam was alive, but it could be good again.

  He remembered friends there he had not thought of in years. He remembered the way it was then. It would not be that way now, but it could still be good. It would be better than Helena.

  “I need your help more than ever to keep up with that boy.” He squeezed Peter’s shoulder.

  Peter smiled.

  “I have to return him safely to his father. I pray he is alive.” Dr. Taylor squeezed Peter’s hand. “Will you promise to help me take care of him, Peter?”

  “Yes, sir.” Peter would do anything for him.

  Dr. Taylor winked, then pulled a golden object from his vest pocket. Peter knew it well.

  “This is for you, Peter.” He placed the object in Peter’s hand. “I had this made for my Hattie years ago. She loved them so. It was such a treat for her when they came in the spring, so many, so beautiful. She loved a painting of the birds by Audubon, so I had this made from that likeness.”

  Peter looked at the present and felt a rush in his heart. He had always admired the precious piece of jewelry, with its uniqueness. He knew it was dear to Dr. Taylor. He also knew what it meant to receive such a gift. Dr. Taylor could have given it to Joe, but he hadn’t; he gave it to him. Peter knew what love meant, and he held it in his hand.

  Dr. Taylor moved around and placed a tender hand on Peter’s shoulder. “It is worth a good deal of money, but to me, it is worth more than treasure.”

  Peter understood. This was the treasure of the heart.

  “Hattie said it represented an abundance of love. I reckon I can’t think of anything more abundant than those birds.”

  “No, sir, I’m not sure God made anything more abundant.” Peter looked up. And God never made a better man than Dr. Taylor.

  “It is now yours, and do with it as you see fit. I hope you never have to part with it, but you do what your heart calls, as I have. We never know what the future holds.”

  Peter pulled the object to his heart. This was pure love—nothing else, for you cannot sell love—you can only give it away.

  ***

  Joe dug another minie ball from a tree and placed it in the sack with the others. Curtis dug at another tree. They had a big collection now. However, the collection of weapons was the biggest prize. They had found two muskets, four knives and a hatchet. The boys had hid them in a hollow gum just outside of town, except the hatchet—it stayed in Joe’s belt.

  The Confederates had made their hea
dquarters at the Polk Farm west of Helena during the battle, and the boys had found the goodies between town and there. Joe had shown some of the Yankees the leads, but he kept the weapons a secret. He didn’t know what he and Curtis would ever do with them, but they were there if they wanted them.

  This day Joe and Curtis were behind the Nunnery, below Graveyard Hill. They had found a lot of lead. Joe knew they would—he had seen the battle rage there.

  “Joe, look!” Curtis said, pointing at a fat stump.

  Joe saw a big hole in the stump. There was a cannonball in there for sure.

  Curtis knelt down beside the stump and started digging with his knife.

  Joe grabbed him by the sleeve. “Get up from there, and let me cut it out with my tomahawk.”

  He and Curtis called the hatchet a tomahawk. Joe had even learned to throw it and actually hit what he was chucking at— most of the time.

  Joe hacked away with the hatchet. He hit the big lead projectile, making a twanging sound. This would be a great trophy.

  Suddenly someone grabbed the back of his shirt and snatched him away from the stump.

  “What in the hell do you think you are doing, boy?” a private shouted.

  Curtis broke and ran toward the Nunnery like a long-legged swamp rabbit.

  “Don’t you know this is one of those shells from that gunboat? It didn’t explode, and here you are hacking away at it like an idiot. It will blow you up in a twinkling.” The private crossed his arms, looked at Joseph, and shook his head. Then he looked down at the shell again. “Step aside, boy.” He bent down to get a closer look.

  Joe stuck the tomahawk back in his belt. He looked at his shirt. The private had ripped it when he jerked him from the stump. He looked down at the soldier, now digging splinters away from the shell and mumbling something about the boy being stupid. Joe recognized the man, the private that had pointed the gun at Uncle Wilbur and wouldn’t let them go to Katie Bea the day of the battle.

  Joe felt his face grow warm and a faint humming grew in his ears. Joe looked around, saw no one—Curtis was nowhere to be seen. Joe looked back down at the private’s ass and smiled. Joe raised his shoe back to the sky and let it fly.

  The private’s head hit the stump. He screamed.

  Joe laughed. The man must have thought the shell had exploded.

  “Damn you, boy!”

  Joe cut out.

  The soldier was on his heels.

  Joe flew around the corner of a fence. Curtis was hiding behind it. Curtis screamed and broke into a run. He almost bumped into the private as he ran back the way they had come.

  Joe knew the man was right on his tail, but he laughed at Curtis—he was such a flicker. Joe cut to the right and headed for a small woodshed, which had its top blown out during the battle. He could hear the man panting behind him. Joe ran around the shed and dove like a rabbit through a hole in an upright-staked fence.

  The soldier smacked the fence headfirst. “Shit!”

  Joe looked back, but the soldier wasn’t chasing him. He eased back to the fence and peeped through a crack. The soldier was sitting on his butt, holding his head, blood running down his face. Joe poked his lips to the crack and whistled “Dixie.” When he looked back through the fence, the man was cussing and staggering toward it.

  Joe laughed and cut out running. He looked back, but the soldier had not tried to climb the fence. Joe laughed. There was no way that soldier could—

  He tripped, tried to grab hold, but there was nothing but air. He tumbled, felt vines tug and rip as he fell. His back smacked the ground. He looked up. He had fallen into a deep gully, breath knocked from him.

  He couldn’t breathe. His lungs begged for precious air. No air! He couldn’t push or pull a breath. No air! No air! He rolled over, crawled in the bottom of gully like a snake—no, a worm. It was past forever now. No air! Would he die right there in that gully? No one would know where he was. His chest hurt, and only a silly wheeze escaped his throat. The air wouldn’t move—either direction. Panic screamed at him. Suddenly something gave, and he felt his breath stutter and jerk, then finally—finally, a burst of sweet—sweet relief. He sat and drew in the good air; breath was never so good.

  Slow he regained himself, saw the gully was like a thousand others on Crowley’s Ridge, about ten feet deep or so. He and Curtis had played in many like this one.

  All at once, a rotting smell came over him completely, like a soaking rain. Sweet air hell, now he gagged and choked. He turned and looked straight into the face of a corpse.

  He crawfished, turned, and tried to climb out of the gully. He scrambled, grabbed a root, tumbled back down. He clawed at the dirt. He tried to scream, but gagged instead. He turned and ran up the gully to where it was shallower and wallowed from the pit. He ran toward home.

  He stopped, but didn’t know why he would do such a foolish thing. He saw the corpse in his mind—a Confederate soldier. He knew he should go to the house, but he couldn’t. He had to see.

  He placed his kepi over his mouth, and with the other hand, he raked the creeper vines from the top of the gully. The body was sitting in the ditch, as he must have died. Flies busied themselves, and worms squirmed and wiggled. Joe turned away and gagged, turned back. He was drawn like the flies. The man was a captain. His sword lay across his lap, and he still held a navy colt in his right hand.

  Joe’s pa was also a captain and had such a revolver. Joe knew this was not his pa, but he suddenly felt worried for him. Surely this was someone’s pa. He was dead and rotting in a gully at Helena, and no one in the whole world knew it, except Joe.

  He no longer felt sick. The flies and worms didn’t bother him so much now. He felt sorry for this man’s family, wherever they were, and thought it was good they didn’t know his fate. But more than anything, Joe wanted his own pa. It was settled in Joe’s mind right then and there, right in front of a rotting, forgotten soldier in a stinking ditch, in a hellhole called Helena Arkansas. Joe was going home. He was going to the Shenandoah Valley to find his pa. He prayed he wasn’t a dead captain in some forgotten ditch like this poor man.

  ***

  The next morning Joe had some clothes laid out on his bed. He examined each piece before cramming them into a carpetbag. He would have to travel light, so he needed only a few garments.

  He reached under the bed and retrieved a doll and a mirror. They were cherished possessions of his sister and mother. He had always kept them close by. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, but in his mind it was his family he saw.

  Things would never be the same. Why hadn’t he been nicer to Sarah? Why did he pull her hair and make her cry? She was such a pretty sister, such a lovely girl. If only he could do it over again, he would be good. But he couldn’t do it again because she would not be in the Valley when he got there. His mother would not be there either—no homemade pies, no more kisses when he didn’t feel well.

  Joe wiped at his nose. He stuffed the mirror and doll in the bag. He had to keep his head clear, had to find his pa. He had to find his way back to the Shenandoah Valley.

  He stuck in matches he had swiped from the kitchen. He put in some hardtack he had gotten from one of the soldiers, but he knew he would have to be starving to eat that brick.

  He thought of something else, went to the door—no one around. He crawled under the bed and drew out the heavy revolver. He dropped it. It sounded like an anvil hitting the floor. He scooped it up, crammed it into the bag, and threw the bag under the bed.

  Soon there were steps and the door flew open.

  “What are you doing in here?” Peter asked. He studied the room just like Katie Bea used to do.

  “You ain’t got no business busting into my room.”

  “Dr. Taylor wants me to keep an eye on you, and keep an eye on you I will.”

  “Why?” Joe immediately wished he hadn’t asked the ridiculous question. He wanted Peter to leave. He didn’t have time to mess around.

  Peter looked Joe in the
eyes. “What are you up to?”

  Joe sat on the bed. Peter was sharp. He was the sharpest colored person he had ever known—too smart. Joe had heard it said that a smart darky was more trouble than a loose mule in the corn patch.

  “You ain’t got no business in here, so skedaddle.”

  Peter leaned on the door facing. “You are still in the house an hour after sunup—you’re up to no good.”

  “Pshaw!” Joe clasped his fingers behind his head and fell on the pillow. “Go find a dead skunk to meddle.”

  Peter smiled. Joe had not seen that since before the battle. He didn’t understand it, but it felt good to see Peter smile.

  Peter left the room, and soon Joe heard him outside calling to the cow.

  Joe pulled the bag from under the bed again. He hefted the heavy colt and aimed it about the room. His pa had taught him to shoot, and he held the gun next to his face as he remembered those days. He smelled the spent powder, like rotten eggs—like the cannon smoke. Only one round had been shot. Had that captain killed someone with that shot?

  He thought of his pa. Had he killed anyone? Of course he had by now. Surely, he had been in battles like the one in Helena. However, there was a difference; Helena stayed put—it didn’t go looking for another fight, but the soldiers did. The battle had to come to Helena, but the soldiers followed the war—they caused the battles. His pa had probably been in many battles. He may have killed many men. More than likely, he had been shot at time and time again.

  Joe heard talking outside his window. He looked down to see Uncle Wilbur talking to Peter, then Peter went into the barn and Uncle Wilbur came into the house. It was early morning, too early for him to be home from the store. Joe put the revolver in the bag and shoved it under the bed. Why was he home? Joe went down stairs.

  Joe found him in the parlor.

  Uncle Wilbur was looking at the picture of his wife propped on the mantel. He heard Joe and turned. “Come here, boy.”

  Oh, no, what was he in trouble for now? It couldn’t be too bad; Uncle Wilbur was smiling. Joe sat on the sofa beside him.