Chase The Wild Pigeons

by John J. Gschwend

  Peter’s fear grew to anger when he saw Lucius’s face.

  Dr. Taylor had done so much for this man, and here he was now.

  “Look at you,” Lucius said, snarling. “Got that fine gown on, just like you’s a white man.”

  “What do you want?” Peter asked.

  Lucius grabbed the gown and cut it from Peter’s body so fast that at first Peter didn’t realize what had happened. Lucius looked at it with disgust, then threw it to the floor and stepped on it.

  “Now, boy, you stand there black just like me,” Lucius said, sticking the knife back under Peter’s chin. “I ask the questions. You understand?”

  Peter felt his eyes burning, but he was determined not to cry. He would not be shamed in front of this beast.

  “Do you understand me, boy, or is I got to cut something else?”

  “I understand,” Peter said slowly.

  “Good. Good,” Lucius said, smiling. “Do you see that white woman over the fireplace?”

  “I see her.”

  Lucius grabbed Peter around the back of his neck with his big hand and pushed him toward the picture. “You see those birds hanging down off her neck?”

  “I see the necklace.”

  “Where is it?”

  What would this runaway slave want with a necklace? He must be crazy.

  Lucius put the knife to Peter’s neck. “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lucius wheeled Peter around. “Listen to me, boy. Tell me where it is and I’ll be gone. Don’t—I kill the white boy.”

  Peter looked straight at Lucius’s face. The flickering candlelight danced in his eyes. Peter had not noticed before, one eye was brown, but the other eye was almost gray. They looked like snake eyes or maybe cat eyes. He was like some wild animal ready to pounce.

  “I told you, I don’t know where the necklace is.”

  Lucius slammed his giant fist into Peter’s face. Peter was on the floor dazed before he realized what had happened. Lucius jerked Peter from the floor, twisted Peter’s arm behind his back. Peter groaned and spit blood. Blood spilled from his nose and mouth like red gravy.

  He couldn’t think. Bright lights flashed and pulsed in his brain. The world was spinning. The floor was falling.

  “Come on!” Lucius said. “When I get my hands on the boy, we’ll see what you know.” He pushed Peter toward the stairs.

  The world came and went as Lucius twisted Peter’s arm and shoved him forward.

  The pain in his face brought him to reality in a hot wave. It hammered. He had to do something or Joe might get worse. His mind was trying to form plans, but things were gray. His brain wouldn’t perform.

  All at once, the grip on his arm went loose, and he heard something crash to the floor. He turned. The room was still spinning. Slowly—seemed forever, but it was only seconds; his brain cleared, and he saw Joe standing over Lucius holding a large revolver. He was holding it like a hammer, with the barrel in his hand.

  Lucius stirred, and Joe hit him again. Lucius lay still. Joe brought the butt of the revolver down on Lucius’s head a third time. It sounded a like a hammer striking wet wood. Joe reared back to hit him again.

  Peter grabbed Joe’s arm. His senses were coming around.

  “Let go Peter. I’ll deliver him to hell right here and right now.”

  Holding firm to Joe’s arm, Peter looked at Joe—no fear in Joe’s face, only determination. Peter had always known since the first time he saw the boy that he was brave, but he never suspected this level. He took the revolver from Joe.

  “You’re bleeding,” Joe said. He turned and kicked Lucius. “You rotten, stinking thief.”

  “Stop, Joe. He’s done.” Peter looked at the gun. “Where did you get this?”

  “I found it on a dead soldier.” Joe tugged on the gun, and Peter let it go. “I’m leaving now while it’s dark.”

  At first, Peter didn’t understand; then it registered. “Why now?”

  “After this, do you think the people in this town will let me stay here in this house alone with just you? No. They will ship me off somewhere, and who knows what they’ll do with you.”

  Joe was thinking clearly. Peter had not thought of this. However, Joe wasn’t the one with a busted face. Joe was right. What would happen to them after this?

  Joe grabbed up the candle and went up to his room. Peter followed. Joe pulled his bag from under the bed.

  “You’re already packed,” Peter said.

  “You need to hurry up and pack, too,” Joe said, digging something else from under his bed. “We are going to need some money. We will get it from the store.”

  “You mean steal it?”

  “That was Uncle Wilbur’s store and his money. Now it is ours and rightfully so.”

  Peter went to his room and lit the lamp. He poured water into the basin and dabbed at the blood on his face. It stung, but the real pain was the pain of the unknown.

  If they stayed, it would be as Joe said. If they left, what would it be? How would they make it? How would they get to the North with war raging all over the South? It would be hard enough for Joe, but a Negro traveling the roads would invite every trouble possible.

  Peter looked at his reflection in the mirror. His face was beginning to swell, but it was not going to be too bad. Not too bad? He argued with himself. How was he going to get Joe out of here? Oh God, how? He wept. The tears brought a flood of pain, memories of Mam and Dr. Taylor, and Helena before the war. It would be easier to just sit down in the floor and wait. He could wait for what happened next. It was too hard to think on. It would be impossible for them to undertake this journey.

  He spotted his Bible by the basin. He picked it up and pulled it to his heart. It was a comfort—it was always a comfort.

  Joe came into the room. “We need to go, Peter.”

  Peter squeezed the Bible. He nodded.

  “You need help packing your stuff?”

  Peter shook his head, not looking back at Joe. “Just give me a few more minutes.”

  Joe left.

  “Dear God, watch over us, and give us a guiding star.” Peter began loading his carpetbag.

  ***

  The store was dark and quiet when Joe unlocked the door. He lit the lamp on the counter. He searched under the counter where Uncle Wilbur had always kept the change money. It wasn’t there.

  “Someone might see us,” Peter said.

  Joe wasn’t worried about being seen. He was eager to find the money.

  “That damn Theo has the money,” Joe said, hitting his fist on the counter.

  “Don’t you swear in that fashion. I don’t care what kind of fix we’re in.”

  Joe looked at Peter and felt embarrassed for cussing.

  “Let’s get some food and get out of here,” Peter said. He appeared anxious as he looked out the big, front window.

  Joe searched around the store with his lamp held in front. “Here.” Joe threw Peter a sack of coffee beans.

  Peter caught it. “We don’t drink coffee.”

  Joe collected some candy from the counter. “Think, Peter. They don’t have coffee outside of Helena.” Joe smiled. “Better than gold.”

  Peter smiled back and dropped it in his bag. He plucked a handful of candles from a shelf and put them into the bag, too. “We need more matches. They are on the shelf by the door.”

  Joe went toward the door that opened to the back room. He found the matches and put them in his bag. He noticed a dark shape in the door. He raised the lamp. It was Theo. Joe stepped back.

  “What are you doing here?” Theo said.

  Joe quickly gained control. “I own this store now.”

  Theo stepped out into the lamp glow. He held a small pistol in his hand, and it was pointed at Joe. Not good.

  “Now what do you know about running a business?” Theo said. He pointed the small revolver at Peter. “I know that boy don’t know nothing.”

  Joe would love to cram that gun down
Theo’s big fat throat.

  “You can have the store. Just let us have a few things, and we’ll be gone,” Joe said.

  Theo staggered toward Joe with the gun waving. “Well now, I can’t let you take things out of my store. How would I realize a profit?”

  Joe smelled whiskey, saw the bottle in Theo’s other hand.

  “Theo, put the gun down,” Peter said.

  Theo swung the gun back toward Peter. “Don’t you tell me what to do you high and might—”

  Joe threw the lamp at Theo. It hit him in the face, and shattered on the floor. Theo dropped the bottle, sloshing whiskey down his pants. The flames jumped to the spilt lamp oil, then whooshed to the whiskey.

  Theo screamed and beat at the flames on his leg.

  Peter yelled, “Let’s go!”

  A small sack fell from Theo shirt. Joe scooped it up. He knew the bag—Uncle Wilbur’s money sack.

  They ran out the front door.

  A voice in front yelled for them to stop.

  Joe barely made out a soldier pointing a musket at them. A glow was growing in the store as the flames caught.

  Peter stood closer to the store, and the fire illuminated his face.

  “Tom,” the soldier yelled to someone behind him, “darkies have set the Taylor store afire.”

  A gunshot blasted from within the store.

  Instantly, Joe knew it was Theo shooting at them. This was not a good place to be.

  Peter grabbed Joe by the arm and pulled him toward him.

  The soldier shot and white smoke filled the air. Then he yelled, “The nigger’s got a white boy!”

  “Come on!” Joe said, and the two boys ran behind the store.

  Joe heard more soldiers. It was definitely not good.

  Peter stopped Joe. “Where are we going? We can’t go home. Soldiers are all over town.”

  “Come on!” Joe said, breathing hard. “We’ll escape through the camp.”

  “What camp?”

  “The nigger camp. Now come on.”

  They ducked through alleys and ran through gaps in fences. This was almost fun, Joe thought. It was too easy. He knew all of the nooks and crannies. He looked back and Peter was on his heels. It didn’t look like fun to him.

  ***

  The contraband camp was a small city. It was dark, but fires sprinkled here and there giving it an eerie illumination, and shadows danced on the makeshift tents of rags. A dog howled to the south, and frogs and crickets harmonized the night.

  However, it was the coughing Peter noticed the most. One cough could not be separated from the others. They ran together like words in a song from some ghostly chorus, some low and muffled, some high, wheezing tapering to a losing breath.

  The air was foul, like the low end of a barnyard: chicken mess, cow pee, blended with the smell of rotting hay. The whole town of Helena had an outhouse smell with all of the soldiers crowded there, but not like this. Peter never knew the smell of death before, but that smell was here. He now knew why Dr. Taylor did not want them ever to come here.

  “This is a horrible place,” Peter whispered as they entered the edge of the camp. “These poor people.”

  He turned to Joe. Joe was looking back toward town. Peter immediately saw the fire. It was glowing about a quarter of mile away.

  “It’s the store,” Joe said.

  Small lights were popping on all over town and in the hills, too. Peter knew they were lamps and torches, but from here, they looked like lightning bugs.

  “Joe did you hear what that soldier said? He thought I was nabbing you after setting the store afire.”

  “Yeah, I heard him. That was Bill Franklin yelling at Tom Ryan.”

  “They think I burned the store,” Peter said.

  Joe said nothing, only watched the glow of the burning store and the lights lighting up all over town.

  Peter reflected. It would be easy for anyone to think I had gone insane: Mam was killed; Dr. Taylor was dead. What if Lucius was dead? They will find his body. They will conclude that I had killed him. Joe was missing and the soldiers saw him with me. Since the store was on fire, Theo may be dead, too.

  “They couldn’t tell it was you,” Joe said, still looking toward town. “When Bill yelled at Tom, he didn’t call your name. He said, ‘Niggers,’ not Peter, and he knows you.”

  Peter remembered. Joe was right. But that could be worse. Someone innocent could get the blame.

  “What y’all doing here?” a voice came from behind them.

  They both turned at the same time. Peter saw a black man with nothing but rags on. Peter was trying to think of an answer when the man spoke again.

  Staring down at Joe, the man said, “Well, if ain’t the little massah what going to catch us a fish.”

  A skeleton of a woman came from one of the tents.

  “Mae, look what done come back,” the man said. “Reckon he got them fish for us?” He laughed. He stirred in a fire and got a small blaze going.

  Other people were looking out of their tents and shanties, and a few men came up.

  A one-eyed man pointed toward town. “Look, they’s coming.”

  Peter saw a trail of lights coming from town. They were moving quickly toward the camp.

  Joe looked at Peter, then turned toward the gathering crowd of Negroes. He pointed at Peter. “They are after my boy, Peter. We need y’all to help us.”

  “We ain’t helping nobody,” the one-eyed man said. “Y’all is bringing trouble on us.”

  The crowd had grown large, and they were agreeing with the one-eyed man.

  Peter saw what Joe was trying to do. They wouldn’t help a white boy, but maybe they would help him.

  “Please help us,” Peter said. “They will take me from my young massah, and he is so good to me.”

  Some laughed and mumbled, “Poor nigger.”

  The crowd was more interested in the trouble coming from town. They walked past the boys and watched the lights coming, discussing what to say and how to avoid the coming trouble.

  Mae motioned the boys to her tent. Peter pushed Joe that way. He didn’t know what she wanted, but their options were slim.

  She disappeared into the tent. Peter heard talking from inside, but he couldn’t make out the words. Joe had his ear to the rags, trying to listen when Mae came out with a skinny boy. He appeared to be around seven or eight.

  “Follow Bo; he will fetch you outta here,” Mae said.

  “Thank you,” Peter said.

  Before the words left his mouth, Bo had darted from the camp and through the weeds, with Joe on his tail. Peter hesitated for a second, but realized if he didn’t act swiftly, he would lose the boys.

  The younger boys were bobbing through the weeds and darting around stumps like rabbits. Peter had a difficult time keeping up, but Joe’s blonde hair was like a beacon. They were heading east. That meant toward the river.

  Peter knew they couldn’t swim the river—it was a mile wide here. Mud gushed around his shoes as they ran through the bog, then they went up and over the levee. Now that the time was at hand, he didn’t want to cross it at all. Confederates held the other side. He had his free papers, but he still didn’t want to go over there. They could go up through Missouri, not east into Mississippi. Joe was the reason—he always found trouble.

  Peter almost tripped over Bo, squatted down by some weeds.

  The Mississippi River spread out before him like an ocean. The water glimmered with the moonlight. The river was so vast that Peter couldn’t see the other side.

  Joe was excited. “Look, a boat.”

  Bo pulled weeds and sticks from what resembled a boat or canoe. From the dim light, it appeared old and rotted. It was about ten feet long and four feet wide.

  “God above, Joseph, we can’t cross the river in that rotten thing—we’ll drown for sure!”

  “We have to. What else are we going to do?”

  “We will just tell the soldiers what really happened. They will believe you.�
��

  Joe asked Bo where the boat had come from as he helped pull the brush from it.

  “Two niggers tried crossing over from Mississippi in it,” Bo said.

  “Did they make it?” Joe asked, as the two boys dragged it to the water’s edge.

  “Naw, the Rebs shot ‘em, but the boat washed up on this here side, and we fetched it.”

  Peter figured that’s what will happen to them if they get in that boat, only it would be the Yankees doing the shooting.

  Joe shoved the boat into the water. There wasn’t much current close to the bank.

  “Are you coming?” Joe asked, as he picked up a long board from the bottom of the boat.

  “Joe, you can tell them what happened, and things will be set right,” Peter said.

  Joe started paddling with the long board. “You tell them.”

  Peter threw his bag over his shoulder and jumped into the water. He grabbed the boat.

  “Joseph, you are not going to leave me in this fix!” Peter snatched the board from him. “Now, you get out of this boat and tell the soldiers what happened.”

  Peter saw Joe suddenly look past him. Peter turned and saw Bo was gone. Then he saw the lights shining above the levee toward the camp. He heard loud voices, then popping.

  “Shit, they’re shooting the niggers!” Joe yelled. “Get in the boat—get in the damn boat!”

  Peter had to think—what should he do? He sure didn’t want to cross the river, but they were shooting. What was going on up there at the camp? Were they really shooting innocent people? The Yankees wouldn’t shoot unarmed men, would they? Would they shoot before Joe could tell them what really happened? Mam said go north. He had promised her. The Rebels were east. He was free, but he was black.

  The lights were coming from the camp.

  “Damn it, Peter, get in the damn boat!” Joe screamed.

  The row of lightning bugs was coming.

  Peter turned and flung the board into the boat. He pushed the boat hard and jumped in. Joe grabbed the paddle and stroked hard at the water. Peter pulled the board from Joe’s hands. He made a quick calculation, raised his knee, and drove the board down across it. The board made a loud crack. He handed Joe half, and they took stations on each side of the boat and went to work. They quickly hit the current.

  Peter looked at the bank again. Someone was standing in the water, a big man. Something glimmered in his hand. That’s all the moonlight would reveal.