He spotted a small abandoned house off the road a ways, and he persuaded Joe to stay the night there. The house was old. It appeared to have been a log cabin that someone had made bigger by adding scrap lumber. Some of the windowpanes were cracked or missing, and the door hung by one hinge. There was a table in the front room with two chairs, and pans hung around the fireplace. The add-on lumber was a bedroom, and it had one old cotton-stuffed bed. Logs and kindling were stacked by the hearth, but a spider web spanned the fireplace. On the shelf was a jar of molasses, a little lard, molded bread, and a jar of popping corn. A basin and a cake of lye soap set on a rickety table in the corner. The place smelled like lamp oil. Peter had second thoughts about staying there. It might not be abandoned after all. The owner might only be away for a time.
Joe opened the backdoor. “Hey, look here.” He held up something.
“What is it?” Peter asked.
“It’s a pine knot torch. There is a jake back there. I reckon this is to light the way.” He closed the door.
“Joe, I think we should move on. Whoever lives here may be back.”
“Pshaw! They ain’t coming back.” Joe waved the notion away. He grabbed the popping corn from the shelf, pulled the lid off, and smelled the corn. “Smells good. Let’s build a small fire and pop this corn.”
“I really think we should move on.” Peter said. “We may be trespassing.”
Joe set the corn on the table and propped the front door up. “Nation Peter, there ain’t nobody living here, besides we ain’t going to hurt nothing.”
Maybe Joe was right. It would be better than camping beside the road.
Joe stuffed old rags in the windows to keep the mosquitoes out, and Peter started the fire.
The stick holding the pot caught fire twice, but they were able to get the corn popped. The small house soon smelled delicious. They sat at the table eating straight from the pot. The glow from the small fire glowed and reflected a warm light over the small room. A rumble grew outside, and cracks around the doors and stuffed windows flashed, revealing a storm brewing. The wind was picking up, and the drafts down the chimney made the fire flame up, then die back down like a bellows. It was a safe feeling inside to Peter now that the weather had turned bad.
Peter looked at Joe chomping the corn. He smiled. “Joe, tell me a little bit about Virginia.”
Joe’s eyes lit up. “Well,” he started, but his mouth was too full, and he had to hurry the rest of the corn down.
Peter laughed. Joe never had the patience to wait for anything.
They had found the well by the back porch with the aid of the torch, and a good thing, because Joe needed the water now. He took a quick drink, and choked, snorting water from his nose. Both boys laughed.
“I declare, Joseph, do you ever do anything slowly?”
Joe ignored the question and said, “Virginia is beautiful country, especially the Shenandoah Valley.”
“Well then, tell me about the Shenandoah Valley.”
Joe didn’t hesitate. “The most beautiful farms you ever saw in your life. Clear streams and wildflowers and colored trees in the fall and there are beautiful mountains in all directions and caves—”
“Slow down,” Peter said. It was pleasing to see the excitement in Joe after the hard times at Helena. “What do you like the best about the Shenandoah Valley?”
Joe pondered for a few minutes and said, “The mills, I like the mills the best.”
“Mills?”
“Yeah, the mill always meant good times. It meant the corn was in after the hard summer work. We boys would play in the millstreams and that water was so cool. Boys from the area would choose up sides and have battles in the stream. I remember once I cut my foot on a sharp rock and Ma had a fit. She and Sarah fussed over me so. The blood just didn’t want to stop, so somebody gave Ma a wad of moss from the stream to put on it. Sarah was trying to hold the moss on and I was laughing, because her hands were too small, and she got mad and told Ma to make me stop laughing, but I couldn’t. She told Ma to make me stop bleeding if I couldn’t stop laughing. Ma laughed, then Sarah laughed, and everybody looked at us like we were touched or something. We sure loved playing in that stream. I told Sarah when she got bigger...she...could...” Joe sniffed and rubbed his eyes.
Peter stood. “You know we have a long day ahead of us, so we had better turn in.”
Joe wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I better go to the privy before I turn in.” The wind howled and slammed the door open when Joe unlatched it. Peter shut it as Joe dashed for the outhouse.
Peter leaned against the door. Joe didn’t reveal his feelings often, and it tugged at Peter’s heart when he did. They had both lost so much because of this horrible war. No one should endure such hardship and heartbreak, certainly not a twelve-year-old boy. How much more could Joe take? Peter wondered how much more he, himself, could take. Joe was strong; indeed, stronger than any boy Peter knew, but he was still only a child. They would have to stay strong—they would have to lean on each other if they were going to make it. But make it where? Virginia? Pennsylvania? That wasn’t resolved yet, not to Peter’s satisfaction. He would pray for an answer. Peter needed a heap of help finding answers now.
Joe came back in. “Ain’t you glad we stayed here, now?” Joe asked, shucking clothes.
“It appears you were correct Joseph.”
Joe grinned and jumped into the bed. He was soon on his backing humming Shenandoah.
Peter sat at the table watching the fire slowly die to coals, thinking how good it was that Joe could recover from bad feelings quickly. A trait he wished he had.
“Ain’t you coming to bed?” Joe asked. “I’ll let a darky sleep with me. This is a special circumstance.”
Peter looked at the doorway to the little bedroom. Special circumstance. Peter smiled. Joe had never treated him as if he were inferior—he may have said some things, but his actions told another story. God knows, you always knew where you stood with Joseph Taylor. Well, unless you were the butt of one of his shines.
“I’ll be there in a spell,” Peter said. “I’m going to eat a little more of this corn.” No reply. Joe always was able to go to sleep quickly, and he could sleep through anything, even this storm howling outside.
Peter stared at the front door. Behind it was still a long way to New Albany and the Taylor farm. Virginia was too far to even worry about. They may just stay put at Mr. Taylor’s place until after the war.
After the war? How long would that be? It had already gone on forever—it felt that way.
Peter had been to the Taylor farm, so he could make it there, but he didn’t know how to get to Virginia. He was only a child when they had left Pennsylvania—he had no idea how to go there. He would pray for an answer.
Peter stared at the door. Something was strange about it, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was three wide boards held together by three narrow boards, which formed a “Z.” But it wasn’t the design of it. It was something else. Peter looked harder. There was something strange.
The door flew open. The wind blew the bowl of popcorn from the table, scattering white kernels over the dim room. Peter jumped from the chair. He caught his breath, just the wind. Nothing to be scared of, just the wind. He laughed at himself as he went to shut the door. He had seen a lot and had been through a lot, and now he was jumping at the wind.
He wrestled with the door. It had lodged against the wall, and the broken hinge had crossed and stuck. The wind and rain blew through the open door. Peter knocked the hinge free and turned to pull the door shut. He found a gun barrel just inches from his face.
A man stepped through the door. “All right, boy, you go ahead and shut that door,” He had long black hair, which the rain had plastered to his big head, no hat. He had a bushy beard, greasy and nasty, a bedroll and saddlebags over his shoulder.
Peter slowly closed the door. His thoughts were on Joe. Please don’t let him get hurt.
“Now then,” the m
an said, “what’s a nigger doing in this here house by his lonesome?”
Peter said nothing. He just stared at the barrel stuck in his face.
The man studied the room. His eyes settled on the dying fire. “Put some wood on that fire, boy.”
Peter started for the fireplace.
“Wait a minute.”
Peter stopped. He waited for the bullet to the back.
“What’s in the other room?”
“Nothing.” Peter knew the man would check. Maybe Joe had heard him and hid. But where?
“Nothing? Shit, I ain’t gonna trust no lying ass nigger.” The man eased toward the bedroom doorway. “Come outta there!”
Nothing happened.
The man looked into the room, then turned back toward Peter. Peter saw the man had a peg leg. “I reckon you are alone, ain’t you?” He aimed the musket toward Peter again. “Move over there by that there door. I’ll put the wood on the fire myself.” He leaned the gun against the wall, dropped the load from his shoulder onto the floor, and threw a few pieces of wood on the low fire.
Peter took a step, and the man had the gun to his shoulder. “Boy, I’ll blow that fuzzy head plumb off. Now sit your ass down in that corner.”
Peter wondered if the man was a soldier, hard to tell Confederates. He was rough looking whatever he was. He was a filthy bruin, and the rain didn’t seem to clean him up much, could smell his filth across the room, like dead fish.
Peter needed a plan, and he needed a plan fast, couldn’t let the man harm Joe. He studied the gun. If the man would just move away from it a piece, maybe he could get to it. No, that was a bad idea. The man had already revealed how fast he could move.
The man pulled a piece of meat from his saddlebag. Peter didn’t know what it was, but he sure wouldn’t eat it, dirt and grass all over it. The man crammed the meat on the end of the pine knot torch and stuck it over the fire. It was disgusting.
“What the hell are you looking at, boy?”
“Nothing.”
After a while, the man considered the meat done enough. He sat at the table, choked it down. He looked like a starving dog.
“Where did you run away from?” The man spit the words out along with bits of slobbery meat.
“I’m free.”
“Free, my ass,” the man said, throwing a piece of gristle into the fire. It hissed when it settled in the coals. “You won’t be free tomorrow. I’ll get a dollar for you somewhere, I’ll be bound.”
“I told you I’m free, and I have my papers.”
The man threw the table over and grabbed Peter by the hair. He hurled Peter against the wall by the fireplace.
It happened so fast Peter didn’t have time to react. Now his head hurt from hitting the wall, and his neck stung as if needles were sticking in it. Peter labored to his knees.
“Boy, from here on out, you speak only when I says you can,” the man said, standing over him.
Peter had been called names many times by white trash, and he had learned to let it go, but he had never been handled before. The anger glowed in him like hot coals. “I said, I’m free.” Peter tried to stand, but the room spun.
The man kicked him in the face. His head snapped back, and he fell over on his side. He was confused, lost understanding of what was happening, saw white lights, thought of Lucius and Helena.
The man brayed like a jackass.
Peter managed to get up on his hands and knees, couldn’t remember where he was, thought of Mam. She wanted him to go to Pennsylvania—was he there, yet? Where was he if not there? He saw his mother sitting on the floor beside him, reached for her.
The man stepped on his hand with the peg. Peter screamed.
“Go ahead, boy, scream. Ain’t nobody going to hear you.”
“Get off him!” Joe said.
The man wheeled around, almost fell.
Peter’s hand raged with a fiery pain. He looked through a cloud, but he knew where he was now. The new pain was sobering. Joe had the big revolver leveled at the man.
“Who are you?” the man asked, staring at the long barrel.
Joe ignored the man, looked at Peter. “Are you all right?”
The man raised the musket. Joe fired. Blood sprayed on Peter. The man fell straight back like a felled tree, and the musket cart wheeled across the room. Joe cocked the hammer again.
The world was spinning slower as Peter gawked at the sprawled man. Was this real? Did this really happen? Things were beginning to focus again. The bullet had torn through the side of the nasty man’s face, and his left ear was gone. The man’s belly moved up and down slowly. Thank God, he was still alive.
Peter staggered to his feet, looked at Joe. “You can put that thing away. I don’t believe he will be getting up soon.”
“How are you, Peter?” Joe grabbed Peter’s arm.
“I believe I’ll make it, but—”
Joe grabbed his bag, shoved the revolver in it. “We need to get out of here.”
Things were still fuzzy to Peter. “What?”
“He might have friends. We can use his horse if he has one.”
Peter put his hand to his head—it pounded. “It’s storming outside.”
“It’s perfect. Nobody will be on the road.”
Joe was right. They could travel a long distance in the dark with the horse. Besides, Peter didn’t want to stay in the house with the man.
Peter stood over the man, trying to get all of his own faculties back going. What made an evil person like this? The man moved. Peter jumped, then saw why the man had moved. Joe was pulling at the peg leg.
Joe jerked the leg off, inspected it, and threw it into the fire. Giggling, Joe said, “He won’t stand on nobody else’s hand with that stick.” Joe pulled the door open and went outside.
Peter looked down at the man again. Just a few months ago, everything was normal. How can all of this be happening? Mam and Dr. Taylor are dead. Lucius tried to kill us. Now Joe just shot a man as if it were a daily chore. Peter would pray harder than ever this night—he needed answers. Too much was happening, more than most people would ever see in a lifetime.
He heard a pop in the fireplace. The leg was blazing. Peter’s hand throbbed where the man had stepped on it with that leg, and his face ached from the kick—he was still sore from Lucius’s beating. He watched the leg smolder, and laughed. He could not control it—it spilled out like a cough. He went to the door. Joe was already on the horse. Peter turned back and looked at the burning leg. The world was still fuzzy, but he believed he could ride. He laughed again and turned for Joe and the horse.
Chapter 9
Joe was starving. It had been two days since Mrs. Donner’s plantation, and now the food was gone. It had been a miserable two days, too. Joe and Peter had been wet, scared, lost, found, and lost again. They had steered clear of the main road and tried to avoid as many people as possible. They even passed through Oxford at night; Peter was scared someone would know they were on a stolen horse. It was ridiculous, but he would hear none of it. He would jump at his own shadow.
Finally, Peter knew where they were again. Joe hoped so—he wanted some food, and he wanted to sleep on a soft bed.
They arrived at the Tallahatchie River at Rocky Ford, Mississippi, and Peter said it would be just a reasonable walk to Mr. Taylor’s farm from there. Joe wondered what a “reasonable walk” meant.
They crossed the river, rode a piece, then Peter wanted to abandon the horse.
“Are you mad?” Joe said. They dismounted the animal. “No one will know where this horse came from.”
“I’ll know,” Peter said, pulling their things from the horse. “I have to live with myself for riding the stolen horse this far. I will ask God for forgiveness for the both of us.”
“That man tried to kill you. It don’t matter none we took his horse—spoils of war.”
Peter slapped the horse’s rump. It galloped back toward Rocky Ford, and Peter started up the road, said, “Thou shall not s
teal.”
Joe threw up his hands, then picked his bag off the ground, and started after him.
Small farms scattered the area, and the locals took notice as the two boys passed, some even stared.
“I wish you would take that kepi off,” Peter said. “I declare you are going to get us shot.”
Joe ignored him, pulled his harmonica from his pocket, and started in with, Home Sweet Home.
The walk was longer than “reasonable,” and Joe was relieved when they stopped at a fork. Peter chose the fork to the right, declared it the lane to the farm.
They headed down the lane, and Joe started thinking about his Uncle Zeke. He had never met him, never even received a letter after Uncle Wilbur died. Joe knew little about the man. How was this visit going to shape up?
“What’s on your mind?” Peter asked.
“Ain’t nothing.”
“Oh, it’s something. You have the harmonica to your lips, but you stopped playing five minutes ago.”
“Why didn’t Uncle Zeke come see about us when Uncle Wilbur died?” Joe finally asked, shaking spit from the harmonica.
“I reckon he doesn’t know he is dead. I’d imagine he didn’t even know you were in Arkansas; at least, Dr. Taylor didn’t mention being able to get a letter to him. I know he had tried.”
Joe felt a sudden heavy weight. How do you tell a man his brother is dead? He’d figure on that later.
“What’s he like?” Joe asked.
Peter looked up the road, turned, looked back the direction they had come. “I believe this is the correct road, hope it is.”
Oak trees grew so close to the narrow lane that their limbs intertwined overhead. It was cool and shady.
“Well?” Joe asked.
“Yes, this is the road.”
“No. What’s he like?”
Peter smiled and shook his head. “He is a very big man.” Peter pondered. “Dr. Taylor wasn’t a big man. Is your pa a big man?”
“Not too big.”
Chase The Wild Pigeons Page 13